StPetersburg Nights
by Natasha Shaitanova
Summary: Draco Malfoy: a criminal on the run in Russia. Harry Potter: England's top agent on the chase. Throw in a few old friends and a corporate scandal and you're got a thriller mix of magic and modern. Because who wouldn't want to see Malfoy in a BMW?
1. Prologue

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St. Petersburg Nights

by Natasha Shaitanova

_Prologue: A New Life_

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**Disclaimer**I don't own_ Harry Potter_. I do own this story :)

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Snow was falling heavily on the broody, fogged streets of St. Petersburg, with thick, wet clumps of snowflakes drifting and dripping down from the fragile branches of apple trees planted along the sidewalk. Cars rumbled intermittently through the freezing, icy slush, although few ventured out into the night after the three-day storm. Pedestrians were especially rare, so the passengers tucked safely away in their heated vehicles stared curiously at a lone figure trudging steadily through the snow.

He wore full black, though everything was muted to a dull gray in the fog: a scraggly trench coat, a typical Russian hat, tall boots, and a scarf that he wrapped several times around his neck to guard against the penetrating February wind. His back was slightly hunched, his head downcast against the blizzard, as the stranger struggled a few more steps along the street before turning into a dingy building squatting on the corner of a dark alley.

As he entered the bar, the man did not alter his stance, but made his way straight to the back, motioning to the bartender as he went. With a glass of cheap whiskey sitting on his carved-up table, the stranger seemed to relax a bit as he lowered his shoulders and threw his tattered hat down next to the windowpane.

He tugged at his scarf to take a drink and the motion revealed a surprisingly young man, no more than twenty five, made older no doubt by the somber expression on his refined features. His white-blond hair hung limply around his ears, desperately in need of a cut. Tired, gray eyes stared through the impromptu bangs at the amber liquid in the glass before him, revealing nothing about the stranger, but giving off a distinct sense of discontent. The man would have berated himself for this transparency had he known, but his troubles had blinded him to this minor detail.

Draco Malfoy was not sad. Oh no, Merlin forbid he ever admitted to such a thing. He was merely brooding.

Seven years may seem like a long time to forget, but he learned the hard way that forgetting certain things was never easy. Seven years ago, he fled England for Russia. Seven years ago, he failed Voldemort's mission. Seven years ago, he betrayed everyone he knew, no matter what side, and simply vanished. Draco spent many sleepless nights in his small, ratty apartment, fantasizing of how one day he would tell his story to an ardent audience. He was still waiting for that day, but the story went something like this.

After he had let Snape complete his duty of killing Dumbledore and whisk him out of Hogwarts, Draco had cooped himself up in one of the bedrooms of Spinner's End. He had spent three days simply staring at the ceiling, resigned as he was that any minute Death Eaters would burst in and throw him at of the feet of the merciless Dark Lord. He believed himself prepared for the various tortures he would then face, but he had no illusions of dying as a glorified man on a mission—he would die a coward, he knew. He failed to complete the mission because he was afraid, and somewhere in the back of his more truthful memory, he knew he failed to complete the mission because Dumbledore's offer of reprise upon defection had taken a hold, and by no means a weak one.

Draco tried to squander those thoughts for hours on end, but the promise of redemption kept him awake and wondering. He hated his father; he hated the Dark Lord; he hated the whole psychotic ideal of the Death Eaters; so, just maybe, the old coot could have helped him.

On the fourth day, Draco sat up. The "old coot" was dead. Snape was gone, no doubt receiving honors for killing him. And he, Draco, was in no way ready to say goodbye to life.

Having so decided, he left his room, checking the house cautiously to ensure he was alone, and proceeded into Snape's drawing room. The man had never trusted banks of any kind, not even Gringotts, and had always kept a stash of a few thousand galleons in the dungeon of the house. Draco had thought carefully back to his childhood memories to recall the entrance to the basement from the drawing room, finding it finally behind the ever-burning flames of the fireplace. From there on, it took little effort for him to slip down a flight of crooked stairs and fill a decent-sized leather sack to the brim with coins. Snape never assumed that anyone unwanted would ever find the location of his house, let alone figure out how to reach his underground vault. He had certainly never suspected the "Malfoy brat" would remember.

Stocked sufficiently with money, Draco apparated to Nocturn Alley and took a Floo trip to the shady sister shop on the coast of the English Channel. From there he exchanged his galleons to pounds and euros and paid for a ferry to France, without complication. It was only a matter of a couple of days fro him to make his way through Europe, traveling by train through France, Germany, and Poland. He had a bit of an unfortunate encounter in Poland—an English wizard, traveling abroad, had recognized him from the Wanted signs back home and attempted to apprehend him, but a strong Confundus Charm took care of that problem.

Draco tried not to think of the blabbering man staggering through the streets of Krakow as he boarded the train to Kiev. From there, he avoided Floo locations like a plague—he had no desire to be traced so close to his destination, and completed the final length of his journey by muggle taxi, leaving the remainders of his money with the drivers as he finally reached the bustling streets of the Window to the West.

Summer was upon St. Petersburg when Draco arrived and the blooming boulevards, overflowing with greenery and roses, seemed to welcome him to the city, despite the fact that he had yet to find a place to stay. Draco, or Dmitri Morozov, as he began calling himself, spent the last of his galleons (converted to rubles) on a week at a cheap, backwater inn as he searched desperately for odd jobs to pay for his bread. The search had turned futile as no one seemed inclined to hire a bumbling Englishman who seemed not to have the slightest idea of what anything _was_.

Draco had immersed himself fully in the muggle world to avoid detection –he was well aware of the fact that the English Ministry had appealed to foreign nations for support (although most have gracefully declined) and that the Death Eaters had infiltrated Europe long before the First War, albeit England became the stronghold. Dolokhov, from Moscow, was a prime example and Draco flinched every time he encountered someone looking particularly like the massive Death Eater in question.

The situation quickly turned desperate. The week at the inn was long overdue and he was on the verge of being thrown out, although the owner let him stay a while longer in return for helping around the place—cooking especially. As with basically everything else in his new life, Draco had no idea of how to cook, so his potions knowledge and his wand was all he had to go on. It took him a total of one and a half day to decide that the arrangement was in no way working out and that there was only one feasible alternative.

And Draco had no inhibitions about turning to thievery. Having the wand with him made stealing from muggles especially easy—not only did it pay more than adequately for his food and roof, but it gave him a sense of vindictive pleasure to get back at the people he believe responsible for his plight. He gradually progressed to stealing more than petty cash from unwary pockets—a few rubles turned into multiple wallets, then accompanied by jewelry, watches, purses, suitcases.

Draco did not stop. He could not find it in himself—it became his obsession, his drive. He pushed himself to steal more and bigger items, wishing every time that he would get caught and deported back to England. He hated Anton Vassilievich, the landlord of his new, rundown apartment. He hated the apartment. More than anything, he hated himself.

Bit by bit, Draco became the new, single face of crime in St. Petersburg. Watches turned into full store casings, illegal car trafficking, eventually bank robberies. Draco was reckless. He did not care if he got caught, although he knew he never would be. He had successfully avoided the wizarding world for years, dealing only with muggles, robbing only muggles.

He prided himself, however, on the fact that he never killed. He used stunners now and then, even obliviated when need was dire, but he never maimed or murdered. He told himself he would not descend to that level, yet sometimes asked himself if there was really anywhere lower to go. Crime became his job, his addiction, his talent. He ignored the brakes and cruised on as in his new BMW.

Draco had long ago departed the impoverished state he had arrived in, using his ill-earned profits to create a comfortable, though low-profile, living in the Russian city. Gradually, he learned the language, with a few spells to help him along and eliminate the language. He kept his appearance the same throughout the years, confident that no one would recognize him in the abundance of gray- and blue-eyed blondes St. Petersburg played host to. All in all, he adapted. After all, that was what Malfoys did.

As Draco swirled the final drops of amber in his glass and dragged his finger through the fog on the dirty window, he frowned and dragged his thoughts out of the dangerous waters of reminiscence. As every time he thought of the glorious story of his escape, he hit dead end once the tale arrived at the threshold of his criminal career.

Even as he sat in the cheap, forgotten bar in a lonely alley, he forced his mind to think about his latest job and the best way to go about it. The bar was his thinking place—he could get away from unwanted distractions and concentrate on the current task at hand. Downing the last of his whiskey, he called the waiter for a bottle of vodka and a shot glass—thinking would not come easy this time, not when the item in question happened to be rather…human.

Draco threw his head back and let the transparent liquid burn a path down his throat. He may have sworn not to maim or kill, but kidnapping did not fit that category.

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A/N: Alright, this is only the prologue, of course. This gives everyone the context and an idea of what this story is about. Much mroe action and dialogue will follow, I promise 

**please REVIEW! **Reviews feed inspiration!

-NS


	2. Chapter 1

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St. Petersburg Nights

By Natasha Shaitanova

Chapter 1: Job Plight

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Harry Potter was not a very happy man. He imagined it must have had something to do with the various disappointments life threw at him. Seven years ago, he began his full-time search for Horcruxes. Thankfully, with the aid of the Order of the Phoenix and of course Ron and Hermione, the quest was complete in a little under three years—much sooner than anyone had hoped. And yet, after Lord Voldemort crumbled into a pile of fuming ashes on the newly-made ruins of Godric's Hollow, any satisfaction Harry might have felt upon the death of his nemesis soon ended.

The war had cost many lives—including the ones of those most dearest to him. Mrs. Weasley, Minerva McGonagall, Charlie Weasley, Seamus Finnigan, Padma and Parvati Patil…the list went on. The trauma of losing his mother and brother, as well as his left eye, rendered Ron mute and no one had yet succeeded in coaxing him to say even a word. The Dursleys, "Unfortunately" Harry sometimes thought, remained unscathed, although Hermione lost her parents to a Death Eater raid just days before Voldemort's defeat. All in all, the oft-envisioned triumphant defeat had not come—the world was already grieving for hundreds of war's casualties.

The world was cruel, Harry decided, and one never got a break. He hoped for reprise after the war had ended, a bit of time for tears to fall, and maybe the new promise of happiness sometime in the distant future, but for the time none seemed apparent. He had hoped that Ginny would accept him back and maybe create a real relationship, but the redhead fled to America the moment she knew her brothers were safe—she loved them above all else, but the constant horror and reminder of her ruined family was too much. Harry had hoped that maybe Hogwarts would be restored and things could go back to the way they were, but no such luck—the building was destroyed beyond even the capabilities of magic to restore it, forcing the school to be permanently shut down and declared a National Memorial.

A new institution was still in construction, with any willing students being relocated to Beauxbatons Academy in France. Harry had hoped, though a bit less ardently, that the ministry would be reformed and corruption toned down, but it seemed like their new leader was by no means a Reconstructionist – perhaps electing the CEO of MagiComp Incorporated was not the best idea. Capitalism was certainly given free reign.

More than anything, however, Harry had hoped for a calm life with a low-profile, stable, _safe_ job. He may as well have wished to work on the Moon—not likely. No, instead Harry had been recruited by the new minister, Liam Montgomery, into joining the MIA—Ministry of Magic International Intelligence Agency—as a field agent.

The International Magical Cooperation Board had declared immediately upon the fall of the latest "Dark Lord" that increased international security was in order to maintain stability in the magical world and increase foreign cooperation on the matter. Sensing a business venture in starting MIA, Montgomery had warmed up to the idea with his typical enthusiasm and commenced with recruiting the veterans of the Second War as the organization's elite.

Naturally, Harry Potter was on the top of the list—the Boy Who Lived, The Vanquisher of the Dark Lord, The Savior of England, or basically, The Hero. Although Harry feel the distinct tinge of nausea at the mere mention of any of those "titles", he allowed himself to be dragged into the latest nightmare, resigned that life would not let him stop fighting until his deathbed. He could only be thankful that he was made one of the top field agents, but not an officer or a division leader—he diligently overlooked the fact that he was still a pawn for the selfish (he thought) benefit of not having to be responsible for the inevitable deaths of common agents.

Four years on the job had sent Harry traveling over the globe, from the deserts and jungles of Africa, to the steel monoliths of New York, to the silent temples of Kyoto, and even to the slopes of Mount Everest. As a rule, Harry did not have a choice of what mission he was on or where he was meant to go and he did not complain. As long as he could avoid England for months at a time, he did not much care to what godforsaken location he was directed to. As months and years passed, Harry's work was gradually narrowed to specialize in high-profile disappearances and kidnappings. He rather liked to see himself as a private investigator searching for missing persons, had it not been for the slight fact that every few months he had to return to base for his new orders.

Such was his situation on February 5th, 2012, as he was called into the office of his divisional director, Rosalind Cox, to discuss his latest assignment.

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Harry rushed through the hall to Rosalind's office, as he attempted to straighten his tie, flatten his hair, and keep a tight hold on his papers at the same time. He had woken up late, having gotten back from a mission just the previous night. Dog-tired from airplanes, apparition, and a generally convoluted mission, he had not bothered to check his phone before dropping into a deep, potion-induced sleep. Having woken up at ten o'clock in the morning, he took his time with showering and eating breakfast, before noticing the insistently blinking light of his answering machine. The tittering voice of Angela North, Rosalind's head secretary, flitted cheerfully through the phone, with no regard to Harry's increasing horror as he was informed of his nine o'clock appointment with his boss to discuss his new assignment.

Rushing to his closet and out of the door in a flurry of clothes and curses, Harry ran into an alley behind his apartment building before apparating directly into the main lobby of the MIA department at the Ministry of Magic. He skidded to a stop at Angela's desk before continuing on at her sardonic smile and wave. At the door to Rosalind's office, he paused and took a deep breath to calm his erratic nerves and heart, before opening the door and steeling himself against the expectant glare.

"Four years and you still have not learned the virtues of being on time, Potter."

"Yes ma'am," Harry was tempted to say 'more like twenty-two, actually', but held his tongue.

"Keep that mess, I want a full report emailed no later than Friday," Rosalind nodded at the papers Harry had clutched on his way to her office, before taking out a thick, black folder, "This is your debriefing information for the next case. Feel free to look through them as I explain."

Harry took the proffered folder and opened it, raising his eyebrows as he stared at the topmost file. The name "Draco Malfoy" stood out conspicuously in bold font.

"You may have heard that MagiComp was having a spot of trouble with lawyers lately," Rosalind started without preamble, sparing just a fleeting smirk at Harry's expression, "Although, being stuck in the middle of Afghanistan may have prevented you from keeping in touch with current events here. I'll lay out the issue. MagiComp is getting heavily sued for what is basically embezzlement—they aren't paying back to their original investors. Now, to hush up the trial, Montgomery had agreed to pay reimbursements to all the bypassed investors save for one. That one happens to be owed the most money, considering that his investment owns a good part of the company. That one investor also happens to be very dead."

"So what's the problem?" Harry abandoned the file for the moment to stare at his boss, "You can't expect me to recover a dead person. Who is he, anyway?"

"Lucius Malfoy, obviously."

Harry frowned, "Malfoy? Why the hell would Malfoy invest in MagiComp? It's well known that the company deals in modified muggle technology, and have we forgotten he was a Death Eater?"

Rosalind waved her hand in an annoyed fashion, "Who cares if Malfoy was a Death Eater? He certainly didn't. No, Malfoy would have dealt with anything that promised a profit and MagiComp most definitely promised a profit, even nine years ago."

"I still don't understand, what does this have to do with my mission?"

"When I said MagiComp was getting sued, I meant specifically that the lawyers from both sides were at a standstill when the investigations dug up the Malfoy investment. By the contract, MagiComp is bound to pay up or hand over part of the corporation itself to the Malfoys, unless the proper representative signs a negotiations agreement for a renewal of the contract or a termination, which would result in MagiComp getting sued even worse. Now, it is pretty clear who the representative is—Draco Malfoy. He went missing seven years ago, as everyone knows, and now we want you to procure him."

"And why, exactly, is some corporate scandal so important to us? Couldn't we just leave MagiComp to its own devices and leave Malfoy in whatever hole he hid in?"

Rosalind sighed in frustration, "No, we can't. The problem is this—if MagiComp goes out of business, which is what the malpractice suit is threatening, then the English economy collapses. And I am not talking just about our economy, I am talking about muggle England as well. If this country goes into a serious depression, then the problems we would face at that point are best not even imagined. The point is, MagiComp is too important and since we specialize in protecting the welfare of this country and you in finding missing persons, we are taking this job. Clear?"

Harry fiddled with the file, "Did Montgomery call you? Is he forcing us to take the case?"

Rosalind simply pursed her lips, "Let me put it this way. If we don't take the case, the Ministry is cutting funding and jobs would have to be cut. The Minister was very clear on this point."

"Yeah, I got it," Harry let the air out through his clenched teeth as he seethed. Of course the Minister would coerce them into the job. He was surprised it only took this long for him to prove that the election was a grave mistake. "When do I leave and where to?"

"Moscow, Russia," Rosalind replied without hesitation, glad that the subject was off the matter of corruption, "The Russia agents sent us information a week and a half ago, saying that they may have picked up Malfoy's trail by accident. At that point, no one was even looking yet. In any case, they think they have a solid lead and you are going to check it out. It's as good a place to start as any. Details are in the folder, dismissed."

With a quick nod and a fast step, Harry hurried out of the office and made his way back to the lobby, before Apparating to the Leaky Cauldron. He may be leaving in six hours, but he sure wasn't leaving without a good drink. Draco Malfoy. He had hoped he could leave at least that part of his past buried, but it seemed like fate was never kind enough.

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Leaning casually against the soft arm of his sofa, Alexei Gorozin stared with a fair amount of amusement at his television, listening to the English reporter drone on about the MagiComp scandal. The screen showed a large close-up of Montgomery, apparently speaking loudly and gesturing at the prosecuting attorney, with a flashy caption: "Minister accuses the prosecution of crimes against the nation in that they are endangering the assets of the largest corporation in England, threatening economic collapse." Gorozin huffed. Honestly, those Englishmen were so transparent. Crimes against the nation? 'Idiot,' he thought, 'If you are going to damn well embezzle a couple of millions, you damn well better do it right!'

Scowling, the Russian businessman stood up and stretched, before turning his head to yell in the direction of the bar, "Misha, get me something on the rocks, now!" Waiting patiently for his personal bartender to bring him a thoroughly too strong liquor, Gorozin mulled over the new development. So. They wanted to procure Draco Malfoy, his spy had said. 'A little too late for that, _tovarishi_,' he thought with a lazy smile on his face. The English were always too late, in his opinion. What moron had decided to call the nation so very punctual? "Pah!"

Gorozin was fully prepared to express his indignation to the bartender when his jacket's pocket vibrated violently. Pulling out the cell phone, he took a moment to check the caller ID, only to be confronted with a blank screen.

"Speaking."

"We have a complication."

"You mean _you_ have a complication."

"No, _we_ do. She already left the country."

"To what country?"

"That's the complication."

"You don't know or it's bad?"

"The first. But I don't think its France or England."

"She could be fooling you. Have you checked Moscow?"

"Tomorrow. That's from where my contact says she boarded a plane to Yalta."

"Yalta is Georgia. That doesn't count as outside the country. No, listen. The contract holds. Follow her to Georgia."

"The sum goes up."

Gorozin frowned as his phone beeped the dial tone, signaling that the other had already hung up.

"The sum has to go up, the damn sum always has to go up…Georgia is not even outside the country, right Misha? That prick!"

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A/N: Voila! Please review :)

And tell me if you want any pairings.


	3. Chapter 2

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St. Petersburg Nights

By Natasha Shaitanova

Chapter 2: Convoluted Surprises

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Dressed in outrageously rich furs, smelling subtly of Chanel cologne, and sporting a spectacularly glossy pair of sunglasses, Draco Malfoy did not in the least resemble the same, scraggly-looking man who had slipped into the lowdown bar just two nights ago. No, he was strutting boldly down one of the major boulevards of St. Petersburg, reveling in the crisp, frosty air highlighted so brilliantly by a clear mid-afternoon sky. He even smiled.

If someone asked Draco for the reason to his apparently sudden change, he would have waved them off impatiently. After all, what use was it to him to discuss matters of leading a double life with a stranger? But a double life was exactly what Draco was emerged in. During the dark, lurking night hours and behind ski masks and black suits, hid the evasive face of St. Petersburg high crime. He did not fashion a catchy alias for himself to smirk at in the morning papers, neither did he bother with elaborate trademarks or plans as seemed to be so fashionable in the criminal world of late. No, Draco liked things simple. Crime was his job, his necessity, his escape, and his retribution. It most certainly was not his pleasure. Oh, not to get confused, Draco definitely enjoyed the benefits of his "profession", but it would be a lie to say he did not spend many a sleepless night pondering if having a socially acceptable position would have made him feel somewhat less sullied.

But in any case, Draco swept those depressing thoughts out of the forefront of his mind. It was still light and he was still an upstanding citizen, at least for a few more hours. As a mask for the inquisitive gazes of society, Draco was merely one of the hundreds of semi-successful businessmen that flocked to the big city, in search of bigger game. He would admit that he slipped a bit today, decking himself out in luxurious furs and leather, but his Malfoy heritage screamed and demanded with violent vigor that he devote a good portion of his time and money to a lifestyle at least slightly above the plebian source of his proceeds.

Letting out a puff of air to watch it fog up and swirl away in the light breeze, Draco stuffed his gloved hands in his pockets and started the short walk back to his BMW. He may still be on that job, but now was time to ignore that little issue, and hell, ice-cream sure sounded nice. It did not take long for him to pull up at his favorite coffee shop and order a bowl of the dessert, with a double espresso on the side. Thoroughly relaxed and content, Draco mulled over what was in store for the upcoming few days, while glancing lazily at the television set above the counter. What he saw on the screen, however, made him pause and lower his spoon.

"As Moscow gives special notice to the sudden spike in St. Petersburg crime, England's Prime Minister enters talks on the subject. There is evidence, say British officials, that one of the members of a major mafia family from approximately ten years ago that wreaked havoc in England may be responsible for the current situation in St. Petersburg. Collaborating officials in Moscow are currently launching an investigation into the matter of so-called _Draco Malfoy_, the criminal in question. Citizens are warned not to interfere with any private investigative attempts, although a description of Malfoy was released just yesterday, describing a young, average height man with white-blond hair and blue/gray eyes. Details remain vague as officials are reluctant to declare the suspect actually a valid threat…"

Draco tuned out the rest of the journalists voice. What the _hell?_ He thought. How in the world did the _muggle_ English government even know about him? After _seven years_?

'So, the wizarding world blabbed, question is why,' he left the rest of his ice-cream on the counter and walked out of the shop, careful to keep his head down. It was unlikely anyone would recognize him, but one could never be too careful. His life had taught him that too well. He got into the BMW and headed for the airport, not bothering to stop at his flat. Thinking back to the television, though, his serious façade broke: he found he rather felt like Sirius Black and the irony could not help but gain a little laugh.

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Moscow was just too damn big, Harry thought as he navigated the streets in a rental _Volga_, trying to find the meeting place with his contact. He had already stopped for directions twice and was reluctant to do so again. After all, wasn't the navigation system on the dashboard supposed to guide him? Frustrated, he tried telling the system where he needed to get to before the screen flashed a cheery "You have arrived message" accompanied by a Russian voice speaking incomprehensively to Harry. Staring dumbly out of the window, Harry noticed that the car had backed him into a parking slot on the side of a long, rather ornate street, apparently satisfied that he was at the correct location. Looking back at the screen, he saw that it had gone blank and the machine was very insistently trying to tell him something in Russian. Cautiously, he opened the door and got out of the car, pulling the keys from the ignition as he did so—he could not shake the odd feeling that the car was yelling at him to get the hell out.

Walking down the street, which he realized must be called "Arbat" from the English signs, he searched for the restaurant he was told to be at, precisely at seven o'clock. Fortunately, finding it did not prove nearly as difficult as operating the car, as he had apparently been "dropped off" not a block's length away from the place. Walking into the distinctly oriental-looking restaurant, Harry did not even take five steps inside before being cornered by a prim, suit-clad concierge.

"_Reservacia_?"

"Uh…sorry?"

"Oh, English. Reservation, sir?"

Thrown slightly by the near-flawless English, Harry took a second to reply, "Uh, yes. Harry Potter."

"Follow me, Mr. Potter, your companion has already arrived and is waiting for you in the private section."

Somehow, Harry thought that the elaboration made the meeting sound rather unlike a business occasion and a bit too much like a secretive rendezvous. Shrugging aside the innuendo, he followed the uptight man to the back of the restaurant and allowed himself to be led through a beautifully designed, thick, rice-paper screen, to the aforementioned "private section". The concierge left him at the entrance and pointed out the booth he was apparently expected in, "Over there, sir. A waiter will be with you shortly."

When Harry reached the booth, he found himself immediately shaking hands with a middle-aged, sandy-blond gentleman, whose friendly smile was altogether too infectious.

"Mr. Potter! I am delighted," the man exclaimed, "My name is Alexandr Mishkin, though I suppose Ms. Cox already informed you of that."

Taking a seat on the opposite side of the booth, Harry nodded politely, figuring that having read the information from the folder counted as practically the same thing. Speaking of which, he placed the folder next to him on the seat and looked at Mishkin expectantly, ready to discuss the assignment. His companion, however, seemed quite unaware of Harry's haste. The waiter had just arrived and as Mishkin was ordering a dinner large enough to feed ten, Harry realized that there was nil chance of him rushing through the mission at top speed as he had intended. Although, that did not mean he wasn't going to try.

"So, Mr. Mishkin—"

"Please, Sasha. Everybody calls me Sasha!"

"Ok. Sasha. How is it that you and your men came across Draco Malfoy? The brief I received was not very clear on the details at your front."

"Hah," Mishkin nodded sagely, "Well, if it was, what use would I be to you? No no, we must be vague on details in such matters; otherwise we would never get a night of decent dining, paid for by excuse."

"So, then—"

"Oh very well, I see you are one of those uptight, stodgy, serious types, hmm?" Mishkin paid no heed to Harry's affronted expression, although the younger man was clearly not used to being called uptight, "See, the problem is that we weren't really looking for Malfoy when it happened. If your report said we stumbled upon him, then it couldn't be more accurate. Basically, a couple of my men and I were transferred to the domestic division because of some issues on the home front, St. Petersburg to be precise. You may have heard…then again, maybe not…well, St. Petersburg has been suffering recently from speedily inflating crime rates, most of which pointed toward the wizarding nature. By this I mean outlandishly impossible crimes without even a trace of a suspect, baffling the entire police force of the city and surrounding area. We were sent in to investigate a major bank robbery and sure enough found traces of magical penetration. In other words, whoever robbed the _entire_ damn vault was not using smart tech to do it. They were covering the entire place in layers and layers of magic, from opening spells, to Scourgify, to obliviates, to shrinking spells, etcetera. Bottom line, a wizard was exploiting those poor muggles. The wizarding community of the city had not caught on, so whoever it was, he had completely isolated himself among muggles."

"Alright, I still don't see where Malfoy comes in."

"Patience. You have so little of it…" taking a small bite of his sushi, Mishkin paused contemplatively before continuing, "Malfoy must have been quite an amateur at the whole criminal deal, you know. He did not even seem to consider that wizards might get involve if he began robbing helpless muggles. Maybe he just didn't care…"

"Wait, hold on a second," Harry dropped his fork (he did not attempt to struggle with the chopsticks) and stared at Mishkin, "You are saying _Malfoy_ is the new face of St. Petersburg crime? _Draco Malfoy??_ Just how did that happen?"

"Well, your guess is as good as mine on that matter. But don't you want to hear how exactly we found him?" Mishkin seemed a touch miffed at the interruption.

"I'm sorry, go on."

"Very well. To be quite honest, though, he found us. It wasn't nearly as dramatic as I would like to think, but life is life. Basically, a few days ago, my team and I had hunkered down it some trashy bar, wanting a bit of solitude from the noisy hotel. Because, you know, a big storm had just hit the city and no sane person would go outside in that weather. So, there we are, sitting at a dingy table, drinking near hundred proof liquor to keep out the cold, and lo and behold, in walks Mr. Malfoy himself. We didn't recognize him at first, what with all the incognito scraggly clothes and such. But my second in command, Uriy, he spotted that blond hair straight off. Said "I've only seen pretty hair like that when Lucius Malfoy came to Moscow". Well, after that, it didn't take long for us to notice that despite the clothing he was perfectly groomed, nails polished, a thick gold ring gleaming on his ring finger. Although we already had our suspicions, the clincher came when he answered his cellphone and started talking in a purely lucrative manner. Well honestly, bending his head far over the table, even bringing up his hand to cover the mouthpiece. Well, didn't fool us. We took out that Weasley invention—Extendable Ears, and so heard the whole conversation. It appeared that he was accepting some sort of assignment from the very start, but when he started bargaining about the fee. Well, he gave himself away on the spot, saying he was the best and kicking up the price. We didn't need to hear more than that, really. It just fit too nicely. And even if Malfoy wasn't the thief in question, we still knew it was him and were sure your guys would like to know."

Mishkin stopped speaking with a self-satisfied smile, glancing at his dumbstruck companion across the table. Harry opened his mouth a couple of times rather like a tuna, before chancing a question.

"So…you're saying Malfoy, _Draco Malfoy_, heir to what is likely the richest family in the world, is a _common thief?_"

"Oh no, no! Who said _common?_ His work is splendid! Maybe a bit simplistic when seen by fellow wizards, but nevertheless striking. He does not mess around with flashy scenes or any of that. He just gets the job done, it a beautifully simply manner, and that's the end of that. It's remarkably refreshing. He knows what he's doing and he does it well. Honestly, I don't think we could stop him right now—he has mastered the art of elusiveness better than...of name any famous criminal."

"Ok, so ah…how do we catch him?"

Mishkin seemed to be thrown off his stride, "I beg your pardon?"

"You told me you knew where Malfoy was. Now I need to find him and drag him back to England."

"Now I see why Ms. Cox likes to withhold information from the participating parties…She must be having quite a laugh right now."

"And why exactly would she be doing that? And didn't you know what my purpose here was?" Harry allowed a hint of annoyance to penetrate his stoic tone.

"To the second—no, I did not know. I was just asked to give you the information to apparently find Malfoy to _talk_ to him or something…oh, I don't know. My superior talked to your superior, end of story. As for the first, we are both most likely bugged."

"Great," Harry stood up from the table and picked up his folder, "I take it you are about to give me tickets to St. Petersburg and a number for my new contact?"

"Spot on. Here you are," Mishkin handed over the papers cheerfully, as though glad to be rid of them, "Just be careful with those. This is a delicate matter, after all."

"I'll keep that in mind," Harry hesitated before stretching out his hand, "Nice meeting you, Sasha."

"Likewise," the Russian agent shook his hand firmly, "I expect we'll meet again soon."

Curious, but ignoring the last statement, Harry turned and walked out of the restaurant, back to the iCar. Tonight, he would be de-bugging all of his clothes—even Rosalind's toys couldn't withstand furious _Difindos.

* * *

_

Gorozin dialed a now-familiar number, "We have a problem."

"_Now_ you realize it."

"The English are looking."

"Who?"

"The MIA."

"Who."

"Potter."

Neither speaker voiced the thought that sprung immediately to their mind. Finally, Gorozin took it upon himself to resolve the tension.

"He's met with Mishkin."

"He's too close to the case. Are you going to deal with it?"

Gorozin fought back the urge to hang up and forced himself to speak, "I'll deal with it."

* * *

A/N: Alright, I think a plot is finally coming into focus. Of course, I intend to bring in more characters. Any suggestions for the lead girl? I'm still thinking about that one. Again, please review. I would kind of like an idea of how I'm doing.

By the way, about the iCar…hah, well I just thought it funny how everything is becoming iSomething today (think iPhone) and in another 6 years…well.

NS


	4. Chapter 3

* * *

St. Petersburg Nights

Natasha Shaitanova

Chapter 3: A Touch Of Glamour

* * *

"This must be the thousandth time I am reconsidering my career choice," Harry muttered as he sipped a double espresso in the small café under his hotel in St. Petersburg. Reflecting on that statement, however, he decided that it was never much of a choice anyway, more like coercion. Is it his fault he still had not resigned? No, he did not like to think so. 

Looking at the morning paper, he frowned in sync with the man in the front-page picture—a sixteen-year-old Draco Malfoy scowled back at Harry through black and white, as though alive in the photograph. Vaguely disturbed by the reality of the glare, Harry put aside the paper. He did not understand why Rosalind would want their target all over the papers, television, radio…you name it, muggle or wizarding. In fact, when he considered it, it made no sense. All this press would have done nothing more than spook Malfoy even farther out of sight, making Harry's job harder and more unpleasant than it already was. Confused, he considered calling Rosalind to ask about the growing fiasco, desisting only when his phone rang on its own accord.

"Potter."

"Lay off the investigation, Mr. Potter."

"Who is this," Harry asked in a dull-noted voice. This would not be the first time he received work-related threats. This one seemed particularly juvenile.

"Look outside your window, Mr. Potter."

Looking outside the café window, Harry vaguely thought that whoever was calling must be under the impression that he was in his room. At least, he thought that until he saw his car, not a block away, get lifted off the ground by a massive explosion, careening over on its roof and spreading the fire to both of the adjacent cars, setting off a parking lot-full of sirens.

"I hope this convinces you, Mr. Potter. Drop the investigation."

Harry wrenched the phone away from his ear as a harsh dial tone filled the receiver, signaling the end of the conversation. Quickly checking caller ID had turned up nothing, as the number had been classified as "Private". Seething, he again considered phoning Rosalind, but decided against it. With the new development, it seemed as though he really had stumbled on something approximating the severity Rosalind had tried to impress upon him.

Walking outside, Harry hailed a cab and headed for the car rental agency. Call him suicidal, but it just was not in his job description to back off a mission, even if that led to his death.

* * *

Dostoevsky had a point, Draco decided. When one tried to reason away murder or thievery with noble reasons, it only resulted in the insanity of that person. After all, the Death Eaters would have been prime examples for the idea. Perhaps that is why he never tried to excuse what he did for a living now; it kept him sane, when he was lying to everyone, but at least not himself. 

Sitting in the St. Petersburg airport for what seemed to be four or five hours now was getting entirely too tedious, even with _Crime and Punishment_ in his hand. His flight to Moscow had been delayed due to bad weather, but according to the running report, they should be ready to go in about an hour. Draco looked outside the floor-to-ceiling window, only to see the reflection of Dmitri Morozov staring back at him. The new Dmitri Morozov, at any rate. This current one had medium length brown hair, hazel eyes, a peachy complexion, and a decided too happy expression on his face. Draco smiled through his new face; he could not count the number of times Dmitri had changed his appearance in the past years. Ten, fifteen, more? It did not matter. The papers changed along with the man and although Draco rather liked to return back to his natural state every now and then, it was entirely too dangerous now. No, now he had a job to finish.

"St. Petersburg to Moscow flight is now loading. First Class, St. Petersburg to Moscow, delayed flight, is now loading."

Hearing the attendant announce his flight, Draco picked up his sole suitcase and strolled up to the initial checkpoint area. Thankfully the line was still short, seeing as only first class was loading. When he reached the young woman behind the tiny desk, he extended his ticket to her, waiting for the O.K. to go on. Impatiently, he tapped his foot and stared at the woman, who seemed to be comparing his ticker with something on her computer screen. Finally, she looked up.

"I am sorry sir, you are going to have to come with those gentlemen. I am sorry for the inconvenience."

Draco looked over his shoulder to see security guards approaching. Shit.

"On what grounds, miss?"

"I am sorry, but your name is on the no flight list. Please step aside for the next person in line, sir."

Shit, shit, shit. How could _Dmitri Morozov_ end up on a no-fly list?

"Sir, please come with us."

The security guards had arrived, standing menacingly in front of Draco, one resting his hand threateningly on his handgun. 'Bloody fck,' Draco though viciously. He dropped on of his arms straight at his side discreetly, stepping toward the guards. As one of them made to grab his free hand, he brought up his right arm and the man dropped instantly, soon followed by his partner. Without wasting time, Draco leaped over the stunned guards and sprinted toward the nearest restroom area, just around the corner. He could hear yells behind him and could see a dozen or so police officers approaching from the front, so without thinking he turned straight into the nearest restroom, not paying attention to the fact that it was the women's. Ignoring the indignant shriek from inside the restrooms, Draco proceeded to the farthest stall, looking back only to ascertain that the woman had quickly left the room. Without hesitation, Draco turned on his heel and disapparated with a loud crack, just as the first police officer barged into the restroom.

* * *

Draco reappeared in the alley behind the airport's car rental service, walking inside quickly and getting in line. There was only one man and one woman ahead of him, although the door chimed again to announce another customer's arrival. Draco glanced back before turning hastily around to face the counter. 'Shit, shit, shit,' he thought as Harry Potter got in line right behind him. 'Ok, Draco, calm thoughts. He doesn't know you are who you are.' Taking a deep, though quiet, breath Draco brought his nerves under control. Potter was the last thing he needed right now. He thought he could forestall this little encounter for a bit longer. 

"Next."

Walking up to the front desk, Draco picked a bland-looking car, regretting slightly that a BMW was out of question. He filled the paperwork out quickly, signing in as Anton Chertkoff. He showed the clerk his driver's license and wrote a check out under his new name. He had altered all the necessary documents back in the alley and now all he needed to do was get the car and get out of the city before the check he wrote bounced. After all, the bank knew of no Anton Chertkoff of his current description. Much as he regretted looking terribly like a Weasley with his new red hair, pasty complexion, and muddy brown eyes, there was nothing to be done for that. A disguise is a disguise.

Accepting the keys to his new rented _Zheguli_, Draco walked out of the building, careful to ignore Potter thoroughly as he went. Deception could go only so far against a trained investigator. He hastened to the garage, finding his car and lighting the ignition with carefully controlled hands. The desire to shake overcame him, but he suppressed it. Now was definitely no time to panic. Not when Potter was walking into the garage and heading in his direction. He backed out without preamble, speeding out of the garage and into the heavy traffic, maybe a touch too fast to seem normal. He bent his head over his wheel as a police car sped past and cursed furiously. He really needed to get out of the city.

* * *

As Harry got into his new car, he thought back to the strange behavior of the redhead that stood in front of him in line. He had seemed altogether too nervous, palms sweating, fingers fidgeting, not to mention speeding out of the garage. Anton Chertkoff. Harry quickly typed the name into his handheld computer, saving it for further reference. With Draco Malfoy hiding out somewhere in the city, the police swarming all over the place in search of this Dmitri Morozov (Harry had typed that name in above Chertkoff's just before walking into the rental agency), every suspicious bit of information must be taken into account. Frowning, Harry turned off the main road into the parking lot of Starbucks and parked his car in the back, reaching across to the passenger's seat to get out his laptop. Opening up the database of the current criminal alert list of St. Petersburg, all thanks to the MIA program CriminaList, Harry typed in _Dmitri Morozov_. The entry that the name brought up puzzled him. The only picture available seemed to be taken with a security camera at the airport, although it was enhanced for clarity. The criminal history consisted of knocking out two security guards at said airport and running from the police, after resisting to be apprehended once his name was found on the no-flight list. What made no sense was that there was no reason given for why his name was on the no-flight list in the first place. 

Furrowing his eyebrows, Harry opened the St. Petersburg citizen registry and typed in _Anton Chertkoff_. Again, the entry that he received made little sense. He looked at picture of a fifty-year-old, black-haired man and let out a frustrated sigh. There were no more entries for _Anton Chertkoff_ and very clearly the redhead from the rental agency was by no means the old _muggle_ man in the photo. Harry looked back at the picture of Dmitri Morozov and thought about what "Anton" had looked like. He tried to seek out possible similarities, but soon gave up. His memory may be good, but it was by no means photographic. He supposed he could go back to the rental agency and arrange to see the security tapes…

No. His main objective was Draco Malfoy. Tonight, he would be heading over to the bar that Mishkin described, where he claimed he had seen Malfoy last. From there on, Harry would see where his investigation would take him. Whether or not this was related to Morozov and Chertkoff, he could not make unfounded assumptions at this point. Better than anyone else, Harry knew how dangerous assumptions could be.

* * *

Rosalind Cox sipped her cup of sweet, black tea and ignored the plate of miniature éclairs in the middle of the table. She saw sweets as a definitely weakness. Across from her, however, Liam Montgomery indulged freely in the French pastries, paying no heed to his companion's contemptuous gaze. 

"Rosalind, you must understand, what was done was for the best."

"And pray tell, how is endangering one of my agents for the best?"

"Oh Heavens no! We weren't _endangering_ Potter! We were just lending him a hand."

"Liam, I don't think you quite understand. Now that Draco Malfoy is all over the Russian news, he is by no means going to be easier to catch. He is going further underground!"

"Rosalind, consider. If the Russian police is _also_ looking for him, not just Potter, isn't there a better chance?"

"Of course not. Malfoy is not dumb—the first thing on his mind right now must be to flee the country."

Montgomery only waved a careless hand, "Nonsense. Malfoy is not leaving Russia any time soon."

"How can you be sure? He would have to be an idiot."

"I'm sure. It would just prove too difficult for him. See, the police is already on the lookout for Malfoy and Morozov. It's only a matter of hours before his latest pseudonym is announced and his new disguise revealed. He is going to find roadblocks everywhere he tries to travel. And besides, he's a Malfoy! If anything, he is more likely than not overconfident that muggles couldn't catch him anyway, and wizards wouldn't care enough."

Cox frowned, doubtful, "He might already know that Potter is on his trail."

Montgomery coughed slightly around his éclair, before replying, "Impossible. Potter is better than that."

Cox sipped her tea, without replying. If she and Montgomery were playing poker, their hands were far from being revealed, though neither held all the cards. Each thought he or she held the best hand, but Cox was beginning to wonder just what made Montgomery so smug. After all, the cost of this new game could be her top agent.

* * *

A/N: Voila. Tell me what you think. And thanks to those who reviewed thus far. 

NS


	5. Chapter 4

* * *

St. Petersburg Nights

Chapter 4: Ginny and Lizzie

By Natasha Shaitanova

* * *

"Whiskey, no ice."

Harry slumped against the bar counter as he ordered his drink, forcing his face into a bored expression. He had found the pub Mishkin spoke to him about without any trouble—the directions were perfectly explicit—and was now sitting glumly in front of the bartender, chatting idly about nothing. Inside he was buzzing with excitement and magic (he was already under the influence of two strong spells – a sobering charm and a speech translation spell, allowing him to speak and understand Russian) and he tried not to think of what else he would have to cast on himself that evening. He did not even count the new glamour—that was too commonplace for him these days.

Tired of small talk, he began steering the conversation toward his objective: "Did you see the police hubbub this morning? Something about an English guy, I hear…"

The bartender glared at him from under his greasy, sandy bangs, "Shut it, _tovarish_. We don't talk about that."

Harry faked a confused look, "Why the hell not? What else is there to talk about?"

"You shut your mouth or I throw you out, clear?" the bartender grabbed his own drink and downed half of it in one gulp, "We don't talk about the police and their business. You should know better than mention the cops in this place."

Harry nodded slowly as he looked over the shady bar. No, this was definitely not a place to harp about the police.

The bartender, in the mean time, leaned over the counter and brought his face closer to Harry, eyes twitching slightly. Harry had to fight not to recoil from the hard scent of alcohol and drugs.

"I'll tell you this, though," the bartender smirked, "Your spellwork is a bit weak, given your huge English accent. And if you want Malfoy, go find some other moron to milk for information. I don't have a death wish."

The bartender walked off to the other end of the counter, greeting a new customer, leaving Harry gaping slightly at his back. Trampling on his confusion, Harry jumped up from his stool and staggered a few steps backward, letting horror seize him. Never, in all his years of training and work, had he been this careless. Not to recognize a wizard right in front of him, not to properly cast a translation charm, not to double-check his sources…turning, he strode swiftly out of the bar, turning the corner and rushing down the block to his new rental car. Getting inside and pulling out fast into the traffic, he slammed on the accelerator and drove to the hotel. Calming his quickening breathing and heartbeat, Harry took stock of the situation.

The bartender could have easily hidden his magical signature if he wanted to and Harry was not paying attention to that. He had not used the translation charm for a while; it was natural to get a little rusty on the first time after a long break. He did not have any sources to double-check—Mishkin's was his only new information and that just failed. He was on his own.

Slightly reassured and even more determined, Harry slid his hotel key through the laser lock and walked inside. Immediately, his cell phone rang.

"Hello." He was definitely done answering with his name.

"Turn on the television, Mr. Potter."

Shit, Harry thought, That was the same voice as that morning in the cafe.

Grabbing the remote, he switched on the set, frowning as the caller hung up, obviously hearing the loud voice of the news announcer.

"And now, here's Anita Sergeeva, our current correspondent in England."

The screen focused on a plump, black-haired woman wearing a trench coat and standing in front of some sort of administrative building.

"Thank you, Maxim. It seems like there is quite a bit of trouble going on in England at this time. Foreign affairs seem to be going through all kinds of hell, what with Malfoy being chased _here_ in St. Petersburg and this new development I am reporting to you with. Just two hours ago, the new American ambassador Virginia Weasley arrived in London on urgent, classified business. According to the latest update, she was murdered approximately half an hour ago in her hotel room. The London police is at a dead end on how she was killed, as the room was locked from the inside, but they are reluctant to release the details of the murder itself. According to spokesperson Linda Ford, the homicide was extremely gruesome. One of the first EMTs on the scene, however, spoke anonymously on the matter, revealing although the victim was almost fully covered in her own blood, the attacker had left her chest clean except for a distinct lighting-bolt-shaped smear. Forensic experts refused to comment further on the matter…"

Harry collapsed onto the conveniently placed bed. Ginny. Ginny was dead. Ginny, who had finally returned from America, was dead. And it was his fault. He screamed and threw his cell phone hard against the wall, satisfied at the crunch of plastic and metal snapping at the impact.

* * *

Draco hit the breaks and forced himself to match the speed limit. Getting pulled over by police was the last thing he needed now, even if he had become the redheaded Anton Chertkoff. Speaking of the matter…

Draco turned on the news radio, listening intently for any hints of close the Russians were to his trail.

"As part of hourly update, we will now bring our listeners up to date on the Malfoy investigation. St. Petersburg officials revealed a couple of hours ago that Dmitri Morozov was in fact Draco Malfoy. They also warned the public in a formal address that a man by the pseudonym of Anton Chertkoff could be in league with Malfoy, although no clear relationship has as of yet been established—"

Draco snorted. Yeah right, no clear relationship. He was willing to bet what was left of his miserable, hunted life that the wizarding world of Russia was already deep in the investigation, aiding Potter and his cronies.

"Fucking Saint Potter," Draco ground out the old nickname viciously. Even seven years after Hogwarts, Boy Wonder continued to plague him.

Ready to begin a mental tirade against the former Gryffindor, Draco scowled as his cell phone rang, interrupting his angry musings.

"Yes."

"Well, I'm glad you are in such an agreeable mood."

"What do you want?"

"Weaslette is dead."

"I heard the news. This is your means of getting him out of the way?"

"For starters."

"Bullshit. They haven't met in years."

"Old loves die hard."

"Bullshit," Draco was getting impatient, "That's all this is. You could have picked someone closer to home base."

"Gorozin dealt with it. Blame him if you like."

"Tell him to deal with it again. I want a guarantee, not a dumbass covering my back."

"You'll get your guarantee and you'll get your money. Just do your job, Malfoy."

Dial tone.

Cursing, Draco stuffed the phone into his jacket pocket and floored the accelerator. Screw the cops. If any followed, he still had his wand and newly purchased Kalashnikov in the front seat. Glancing sideways at the automatic, he stifled a queasy feeling .Things were getting too far out of control. He sped up.

* * *

Lizzie Montgomery walked leisurely along the beach in Gelindzhik, a small tourist city in the Crimea. Her father had bought a summer home just outside the city and she never missed an opportunity to enjoy it. Smiling to herself she ran toward the waves and scooped up a handful of cool, salty water, watching it run through her tanned fingers. Looking back, she waved at Mr. Thomas, her new, very imposing bodyguard. The man had stubbornly remained dressed in a thick black suit, looking distinctly out of place amid the sand and sunshine. There was a reason Lizzie loved winters at the sea—cold was never too much of an issue.

Seeing Mr. Thomas wave insistently at her to head back, she turned her back reluctantly to the sea and jogged through the tide toward her bodyguard. He looked somewhat like an iron monolith, a black man in a fully black suit with a black tie and black sunglasses. Smiling, she allowed him to herd her back into the waiting Mercedes, although her expression faded a bit at his somber-than-usual glare.

"What's the matter, Dean?"

"Your father wants you to return to London immediately."

Lizzie twisted in her seat to stare incredulously at her bodyguard, "_What?_ Just a few days ago he sent me here to get away from the corporate scandal in England!"

Dean Thomas shrugged and adjusted his sunglasses. It was not up to him to tell the girl that the MIA had appointed him, not her father, and that Harry's latest report (and thereafter lack of one) had caused Cox to order him to bring the girl out of the danger zone.

"Elizabeth, this is not your choice or mine. Tomorrow evening, we are to get on a flight from Yalta to Paris. Your father did acquiesce by saying that you can stay a few days in France, if you like."

"Oh, what do I want in Paris, where I have seen every dirty street a thousand times? No, thank you! There he goes, ruining everything _again!_"

Lizzie turned to stare out of the window, ignoring Thomas as she stifled a sniff. Another vacation perfectly ruined. God, she hated Liam Montgomery right now.

* * *

Gorozin was watching Ocean's Eleven when the red cell phone he had been studiously avoiding rang shrilly.

'Goddamn prick,' he growled under his breath, 'Always have to interrupt when I'm watching a classic.'

"Hello."

"He's running late. The wizarding police are up to date."

"And?"

"Buy him some time."

"And how the hell do I do that? I don't control the airlines."

"Figure it out."

"Now see here, I did my—"

_"Fucker!"_ Gorozin screamed into the empty room. Getting cut off was another thing he hated, "Misha, get in here!"

The bartender slid into the room from the kitchen, well aware of what was coming.

"You've got a fieldtrip to go on."

* * *

The BMW sped around the corner, its left-side wheels lifting slightly from the ground. Draco dove behind the steering wheel as shots rang out in front behind him. Throwing the car into reverse, he backed out of the alley, slamming straight into a police car taking the turn behind him. Twisting the wheel hard right, he sped into oncoming traffic, thankful that it was the dead of the night and not rush hour. Cursing, he threw the car into another right turn, speeding down the alley, not bothering to avoid staggering drunk in front of him. The man was thrown onto and off the hood like a rag doll, thankfully leaving the windshield smear-free. Slamming onto the breaks, Draco brought the BMW to a screeching halt and kicked open the door, grabbing his Kalashnikov as he made a mad dash for the back entrance of the closest building.

Both exits of the alley were blockaded by now by the police cars and officers were flooding the narrow street, yelling at him to stop before they shoot. Ignoring them, Draco slammed the handle of the automatic into the lock of the closest door and threw it open, rushing inside. Vaguely noticing that he appeared to be inside a fast food restaurant, Draco whipped out his wand and twisted fast on the spot, disapperating on the spot. A second later, the policemen crashed in through the back and front doors, only to find a deserted McDonalds.

* * *

A.N: Long time, no update. Well, here we are, finally.

-NS


	6. Chapter 5

* * *

St. Petersburg Nights

Chapter 5: Flashy Interference

By Natasha Shaitanova

* * *

**Disclaimer**: I suppose it's about time I put one in. I kind of forgot…apologies. So, I do not own any recognizable characters from the _Harry Potter_ series, they belong to J.K. Rowling. I do own the plot and the characters I created.

* * *

_15 Minutes Prior to Draco's Apparition_

Draco sped over 140 km down the highway, trying not to glance at the flashing red and blue lights in his rearview mirror. He jerked the wheel suddenly as his cell phone rang for the second time that night, fumbling with his jacket as he tried to keep the BMW on the road.

"Yeah," was his abrupt greeting.

"We are on a tight schedule, Malfoy. You are going to risk apparition."

"What the hell? I told you, _no._ They'll track me—"

"You are already trailed by twenty police cars," Draco suppressed the urge to ask how the person on the other line knew. These questions always turned futile, "And you are being chased by the MIA."

"Your point? Make their jobs easier?"

"My point is there is nothing left to lose."

"I haven't apparated long-distance in years."

"I think you will find your skills will return under pressing consequences."

Draco took a sharp turn off the highway and onto the city streets, cursing as he dropped his cell phone to maneuver the car. As he straightened out the wheel with one hand, he grappled around his lap until his fingers closed around the cool plastic.

"Are you there?"

"Yes, can you remember the coordinates?"

"Yeah, hurry up."

The person on the other end of the line rattled off a sequence of numbers as well as precise description of the location Draco was aiming for.

"You got that?"

"Yeah, now where exactly is it?"

"A mid-class hotel suite in Yalta. The key to the room and the car is on the bedside table. Good luck."

Dammit, Draco thought, they were still sending him to Georgia. If he was still alive after all this, the price was tripling.

* * *

Dean Thomas neither liked nor believed in coincidences.

At exactly 10:05 on the Monday morning, he sat in the kitchen of the Montgomery summer home, leisurely sipping black coffee and chewing a sugary pastry. Today, they would be departing for France and he needed all the energy he could obtain for the long drive to Yalta (no matter how much he speeded up the car with a few charms).

His eyes were fixed on the flat screen television hanging on the opposite wall, blearily trying to absorb to the news. So far, all he had noticed was a celebrity break-up, a fat politician, two cartoons of American soldiers (he doubted anyone would _ever _let go of that) and…Dean was jolted suddenly out of his stupor as a carnage scene was flashed across the screen. The reporter's words made him sit up in rapt attention.

"This morning, at 3 o'clock, a violent explosion rocked Yalta International Airport. Something had apparently erupted in the cargo hold of a 727, effectively disabling the plane. Police officials issued a preliminary report stating that the plane explosion could have been accidental, until a second blast wiped out the main terminals. Federal agents are now investigating what was undoubtedly a terrorist attack. All flights have been canceled and the airport has been shut down. If you had a flight scheduled, please call the number at the bottom of the screen—"

Dean dropped his pastry onto the plate next to his coffee and jumped up off his stool, swiftly reaching for his cell phone at the end of the counter. He knew the protocol, of course, and he knew Rosalind would be furious if he called. But he was also not blind—going under may the regular approach to a mission gone bad, but in a mission gone _very_ bad, he would have liked some backup.

Swiftly dialing the number for Cox's office, he was pleasantly greeted by Angela North.

"Rosalind Cox's office. State your name and identification number."

Without preamble, Dean rattled off the information, "Angela, connect me with Rosalind, quickly. This is urgent."

"I am afraid I can't do that, Mr. Thomas."

"Look, Angela, this is a field agent telling you that he really badly needs to speak with Rosalind. Her paperwork can wait."

"Dean, I _cannot_ connect you with Ms. Cox. She's not here."

"Then can I leave a message? She can't be gone long."

"Has no one informed you?"

'Right, this is getting seriously exasperating,' Dean thought as he tried to keep his voice in check, "Not informed me of _what_?"

"Ms. Cox is missing. The Agency is relocating all of the domestic or minor operations to add to her search team. Foreign operations are as of now considered on their own."

_On our own?_ "Angela, are you saying the Director of MIA has been _kidnapped_?"

"That is the best scenario that the profiling division has constructed. I am sorry, but that is all I can say. Communication with international operations is as of now severely restricted. … Good luck, Dean."

Dean jerked the phone away from his ear at the dial tone. _What the hell?

* * *

_

Extremely uncomfortable, Draco shifted his position amid the sharp rocks, adjusting his line of sight as he moved. Peering through the enhanced binoculars, he could easily follow Thomas's every movement, down to the words he was mouthing into the phone. He only wished he could hear what was being said, but the line was heavily protected and trying to intercept it had proved futile.

_Moments after Draco had disapparated at the abandoned McDonalds, he arrived indecorously at the hotel, falling rather heavily onto his bum. It was a lucky thing the bed he landed on was perfectly soft. Checking the bedside table, Draco picked up the keys and wasted no time in making his way to the exit, pausing only momentarily to check his appearance in the bathroom mirror. He could swear his hair lost an inch or two after the apparition and his newly olive complexion was rather pale. Oh well._

_He found the car easily—it was a BMW identical to the one he left behind at Nevskaya, the town that the cops had caught up with him at. Quickly gulping down a rousing potion (he couldn't chance falling asleep at the wheel), he revved up the engine and headed for Gelindzhik. _

_'Fuck Gorozin,' Draco thought as he brought the BMW to an unnatural speed. (Thank Merlin for magic, otherwise who knew how much time would have been wasted?) He had been debriefed on the location of the summer house well prior to him leaving St. Petersburg, but all parties had been silently hoping the wild goose chase would stop at Moscow, or at the farthest, Yalta_. _Now, the waters were getting choppy and the boss was getting impatient. Mix in Potter and Thomas and Draco was not sure that he would be able to stay afloat. _

Draco packed up his binoculars and looked carefully around the area. With all the rock falls and foliage covering him, he could get close to the house easily. From there, the only obstacle in his path would be Thomas and one man can easily be avoided. At least, so Draco hoped. He was definitely rusty on hands-on combat.

Checking his backpack for all the essentials, Draco glanced back at the house, only to stare in bewilderment at the sight in front of him. All coherency left him on the spot, "_Huh?"_

Three large SUVs had pulled up at the front drive of the summer house. The wheels had barely stopped turning as groups of heavily equipped, yelling people started to file out. Through his binoculars, Draco could easily identify them as journalists and photographers—and a mean squad of them too. Camera flashes were already aimed at the front of the house and a few members of the team were jogging up to the front door, as the rest set out computers, television sets, and a forest of microphones, obviously setting up base.

Draco increased the magnification in order to make out the faces of what appeared to be a television crew, and English no less. He could hear their shouts all the way up the hill, especially the commands coming from a short brunette in the center of the melee. Focusing on her face, Draco first blinked then groaned in dismay. The bushy hair and bossy expression were unmistakable, despite the additional black, square glasses and red lipstick. No, fate wouldn't be so cruel, would it? Draco cursed.

* * *

Hermione Granger was in her full element as a senior journalist of the BBC News: Magical Division, bustling in the middle of her crew, throwing directions right and life. From their fellow journalists in Yalta, the correspondence pointed toward the daughter of their Minister hiding out in their summer home. Hermione was not at all surprised when the moment after she was called straight to the director's office and told to go straight to Georgia and hunt the story until something of substance surfaced.

The days of the Daily Prophet as the dominating source of news were far gone. With the influx of muggle technology and corporations, the magical world quickly built branches in the largest organizations, all under a careful veil of secrecy. How long that was going to last, however, citizens of the wizarding world were starting to contemplate with no small trepidation. But no more about that.

As said, the Daily Prophet had yielded grudgingly to BBC News among with new, higher ranking newspapers, purely factual. Perhaps a novel aspect of news that Hermione was particularly glad about (and took no small pleasure in exploiting) was the steadily growing amount of satire and criticism directed at the government. Cartoonists domineered pages in every newspaper, website, and minutes on television, often portraying Montgomery in the worst possible light. Secretly, however, they all regretted that it was too late to focus on Fudge as the object of their derisive humor—the man was simply too perfect for their job.

Now, standing in the middle of the unlimited resources of photographers, assistant journalists, and all of their electronic equipment, all bowing to her command, Hermione felt like she was living every correspondent's dream. She was sorely tempted to revel in the moment, for it never seized to amaze her how much she came to love her job, but duty called and she was not one to linger. Her camera-armed troops were laying siege to their latest target and as their commander, she had the obligation to command.

"Alright, everyone! Attention! The porch is ready to go with cameras and lights. I want a microphone on either side, one overhead, as well as one for myself. Remember to place a cameraman halfway up the walk and another on the far side of the porch. Let's go, people!"

Moments later, Hermione was adjusting her glasses and giving the closest cameraman the signal to bang on the door. It took only moments for Dean Thomas to open the door and stare blankly at the crowded porch, his eyes focusing momentarily on the microphone swinging just above his head, threatening to hit him should he step forward.

"Dean Thomas! This is Hermione Granger with the BBC News, Magical Division. Our sources tell us that you are Elizabeth's Montgomery's newest bodyguard, hired to hide her for the duration of the MagiComp Inc. scandal in England. Would you like to say a few words on the matter?"

As Dean stood speechless in the doorway (this was his first encounter with reporters, unfortunately), a couple of cameramen squeezed in past him into the house, to get a second line of sight from behind. With no response forthcoming, Hermione tried again.

"Mr. Thomas, is it true that Ms. Montgomery has just recently become a hit target?" Hermione knew she was fishing without any facts or rumors on her side, but she was not about to back down. In any case, Dean's astonished face signified that she may have hit a juicy point.

Quickly regaining his professional demeanor, Dean shut his mouth and tried to back away from the assault, only to find a sharp microphone pressing stubbornly between his shoulder blades.

One of the assistant journalists jumped into the fray, "What is your relationship with Ms. Montgomery, Mr. Thomas? Is it correct you've stayed alone with her here for over a week now?"

Hermione resisted the urge to roll her eyes—subtlety was definitely lost on her cubs. She was about to press questions on Dean to speak to Elizabeth when the girl in question appeared at the entrance to the small vestibule.

"Dean, what's going on?"

Hurriedly, Dean turned and started toward his charge, trying to tell her to get back to her room, only to find that she was already surrounded with microphones and blinded by bright flashes. Hermione breezed in past him, pasting on a dazzling smile as she greeted the teenage girl.

"Hello, Ms. Montgomery! Or may we call you Elizabeth?"

"Lizzie is fine," accustomed to journalists, Lizzie knew better than to avoid them. Give them a bone, her father always said, and then run when they are distracted. Clearly, her bodyguard was not familiar with the protocol in case of a reporter assault.

"Thank you, Lizzie. Now, what do you think of your father's company's situation? I am sure you have heard of the scandal."

"I am sure he is dealing with it to the best of his abilities. I am unhappy with the inconvenience, but will support him wholly through the crisis," Lizzie took a deep but quiet breath as she repeated the practiced phrase, 'I am a perfect poster child, just give them a perfect poster child.'

"We are sure you will. But why are you hiding out in Crimea instead of supporting your father in England?"

"My father thought it best not to mix me up in the scandal, finding it safer for me to take a vacation."

"Why would your father think it's unsafe for you to be in the open? We heard you are currently under threat—"

"Are you being stalked, Ms. Montgomery?" yelled out the same obnoxious assistant journalist.

'That's it,' Hermione thought, 'That prat is off my team.'

"I am perfectly safe and am certainly not being stalked. One can never be too careful however," Lizzie smiled charmingly and gestured subtly toward the door, "Now, if you don't mind, I believe that is enough questions for this morning. I have yet to have breakfast, after all. Mr. Thomas will escort you outside.

'More like kick out,' Dean thought as he pushed the closest two photographers none-too-gently out of the door.

Hermione considered prolonging the interrogation a bit, but decided against it. If they could delay Thomas calling the police a few more hours, then all the better. It was better to soften up one's prey first anyway: no matter how much training Elizabeth had in dealing with journalists, she was only a teenager. Something was bound to slip.

Dean pushed the last two journalists out onto the porch, barely resisting giving a sharp kick to the obnoxious one. Caught up in the proceedings, he failed to notice a sharp crack and a faint tinkling of broken glass coming from an upstairs bedroom.

* * *

A/N: Again, thank you, reviewers. Only now as a writer to I realize how important you guys are! Don't be lazy and click the purple button—wasting a minute won't hurt you. Thanks!

-NS


	7. Chapter 6

* * *

St. Petersburg Nights

By Natasha Shaitanova

Chapter 6: _Big_ Trouble in Paradise

* * *

_Monday, 11:45 in the morning _

After he repressed his anger and despair over Ginny's death (at least, for a short while), Harry wasted no time in reviewing carefully what he knew about his current mission. He already knew that both Dmitri Morozov and Anton Chertkoff were Draco Malfoy's pseudonyms (he had heard of the incident at Nevskaya by tapping the police transmission lines during the sleepless night), so all he needed was where Malfoy had planned to flee to before he was spooked at the airport.

As he sipped bitter coffee in his hotel room, he brought out his laptop and loaded the official airport records, looking for any flight tickets booked under "Morozov". Immediately, the search told him that Malfoy was bound for Moscow, scheduled right at the time that the police had tried to apprehend him at the airport. The second page which came up on the search was the follow-up destination. Now this made Harry frown.

"Moscow to Yalta?" It didn't make sense. With all the media coverage about the hunt, Harry could understand that Malfoy would want to flee the country, but why Georgia? The ticket could be a decoy, he considered, if Malfoy already knew that the Morozov cover would be blown.

"No, it doesn't make sense," Harry intoned again as he stared at the glowing screen. "First, why Georgia?" he mumbled out loud, "Second, why did he show up for the flight to Moscow if he knew the cover would be blown? Unless, he didn't expect it so soon…"

Harry tugged at his ever-unruly black hair and growled in frustration. His job entailed finding some person hidden in a hole, not a ferret running as swiftly as possible away from said hole. Dammit, he was supposed to _find_, not _chase._ Harry's deliberate, thorough approach was worthless in the face of a short timeline and ever-changing circumstances.

"Well, screw it then."

Harry shut down his laptop and threw it into his suitcase, along with his other few belongings. Shrinking the baggage and stuffing it into his pocket, Harry closed his eyes and focused carefully on the coordinates he had memorized just a couple of days ago. With a resounding crack he vanished, only to reappear in his room in Moscow. Taking stock of the hotel room, he ascertained that everything was as he had left it and again took out his computer.

Typing fast, Harry called up Mishkin's phone number and dialed it through the internet connection. (He had effectively broken his cell phone and had no desire to replace it just yet). He let it ring twice, five times, ten times…finally the answering machine came on.

"Uh, Sasha, this is Potter, I may be on to something, but I wanted a consult before I rushed into a total blunder. This is a little out of my area…anyway, I think Malfoy may have left for Yalta. Farfetched, I know, but that's what I'm stuck with. Send back a message ASAP, ok?"

Clicking _off_, Harry sat back against the pillows. He really didn't want to go to Yalta. It was too risky, too rash, too…seven years ago. He loathed to admit that he wasn't the same reckless youth as before, but being a war veteran tended to do that to one. Sighing, Harry decided to wait a bit in case Mishkin responded.

More out of curiosity than anything, Harry opened the BBC News front page and flicked his wand at the screen to switch it to the wizarding section. As his gaze left the live update stream on the MagiComp scandal, he felt as though he was punched in the stomach.

The tagline declared boldly: "Explosion at Yalta airport caused by augmenting charm."

"_On the subject of this morning's explosion of a 727 airplane and a major terminal at the Yalta International Airport, the muggle investigators have declared in bewilderment that the blasts could not have been caused by the inadequate amounts of explosives found to have been used by the "terrorists". A follow-up search by magical authorities declared that an augmenting charm on the initial blasts was used to worsen the damage—"_

"Another damn coincidence," Harry thought as he clicked on a related link—"Elizabeth 'Lizzie' Montgomery found hiding out in Crimean summer home." He did not bother reading the story, but took a moment to look at the pictures. Damn, but did he really want to be relaxing at the seaside right now, instead of wracking his nerves trying to chase the ferret through Russia, in winter no less.

A particular photo caught his eye as he looked over it with the professional eye of an investigator. The shot had been taken at Elizabeth, from a rather odd angle, so that half the picture was her face and the other half the open window behind her. Squinting at the background, Harry cocked his head and enlarged the slide. Unmistakably, the camera had captured a figure crawling over the rocks just behind the house, before suddenly disappearing.

"And another little mystery," Harry scoffed. Who would be disapparating behind the Montgomery summer home, and why? It couldn't be a journalist—they had very clearly decided on a full frontal attack.

Enlarging the photo still more, Harry stared at the figure as he stilled the shot, getting a full facial view, absolutely clear and in detail. _Anton Chertkoff_.

"Oh please, Merlin, not this…" Harry moaned but the face was identical to the one he recalled so well from the airport car rental agency. Anton Chertkoff. In other words, Draco Malfoy. It didn't take much to put two and two together.

Bringing up the phone screen again, the same one he used to call Mishkin, Harry dialed the number of the photographer, fully intending to ask for directions and tell the idiots to get out of the area (not that anyone would listen). He was running throughout the whole mission so far on pure luck, he knew, but Harry was no longer in a position to complain—events had gone to hell far too quickly.

He was about to scroll further down for any other updates, when the person at the end of the line picked up.

"Hello?"

Harry never saw the last headline: "Rosalind Cox, Director of the MIA, still missing without ransom."

* * *

During the commotion downstairs, Draco had crawled close enough to the house to see the upstairs bedrooms and apparated inside without preamble, aiming for the one that looked distinctly like Elizabeth's (he seriously hoped the posters of half-naked, wanton male superstars did not belong to Thomas).

Once inside, Draco took out two tiny, black microphones from his pocket and attached one behind a swinging mirror and the other to the underside of the four-poster bed. After casting an amplification charm on each, he took out the receiver and checked that it was tuned to the correct frequency. The charm was intended to sufficiently bug the entire house from the one room, so Draco wasted no time in disapparating when he heard the reporters being hustled outside downstairs. Twisting on the spot, he did not notice his sleeve catch a glass figurine and topple it as he vanished.

Back amid the limestone rubble and evergreen bushes, Draco whipped out his binoculars, trained his eyes on the room, and clamped the receiver headset over his ears, settling down for what he presumed to be a long wait.

In a flash moment of hesitation, he remembered the ideals he swore to abide by—never to kill, under any circumstance.

"Well," he considered, "Maybe not _any_ circumstance…In self defense, people can kill justly. And since I'm dead if I screw this up…Doing anything to prevent my own death sounds like good justification."

Not entirely mollified, he dragged himself out of the dangerous mental terrain and focused on the room, just as Thomas and Elizabeth walked in. Adjusting the dial above his right ear to tune out the static, he listened to their conversation.

"How long did that buy us?" Thomas was asking.

"Maybe a couple of hours," Elizabeth sat down dejectedly on her bed, "They'll be back as soon as they upload the story. Then they'll need fresh quotes and photos."

"Alright, ok," Thomas started pacing nervously across the room, "Look, the airport is shut down, our flight is canceled—"

"_What_—"

"Just listen. There was an explosion at the airport, well two actually. There's no chance of us taking a plane. I am not going to risk a ship, even to the nearest harbor. Don't like ships," he shuddered, "So, our best option is to drive to Gelindzhik and board a train. Is there some kind of…back exit to this place? A tunnel?"

Elizabeth just laughed, causing Thomas to stop his incessant pacing, "Tunnel? Not that I know of. This is a summer home, not a _base_. But there is a dirt road behind the house and the garage opens up both there and the front."

"Right, then pack a suitcase quickly, we are leaving now," Thomas looked anxiously out of the window and Draco slid a few inches lower behind his rocky cover as he pulled out the toy-sized Kalashnikov and whispered _Engorgio_, returning it to normal size. "Lizzie, sorry if I look like a poor, paranoid bastard right now, but I have a bad feeling about this whole thing and I want us running at full speed away from this mess and somewhere far, _far_ underground. Pack, will you?"

The man stood right in front of the window, mostly facing outside, giving Draco a full-frontal target. Bringing up the barrel, Draco inclined his head sideways and dropped his binoculars onto his lap. He squinted one eye shut and stared through the scope, leveling the automatic off to aim straight for the heart. Even if the shot didn't fly entirely true, he would hit the broad man in the chest and cause enough damage regardless. Draco let out a deep breath, stabilizing himself, and pulled his finger back through the first pressure. Pausing at the hint of resistance, he let his lungs deflate and prepared the pull through with the shot. His finger twitched on the trigger just as blonde mass obscured his line of sight, completely covering Thomas.

"Fuck!" Lizzie Montgomery had jumped up to hug her bodyguard, mumbling something as she did, before pulling back slightly and resting her hands on his shoulders, smiling.

Smiling like a damn, stupid, little whore, Draco thought. Why did she have to choose now to feel up Thomas? He was almost tempted to shoot her blonde head off along for the ride, but instead clicked on the safety and lowered the Kalashnikov. He would only be signing his own sentence by killing the twit.

Still cursing, he slumped back against the rock—Thomas was already leaving the room and he had no clear shot to any other part of the house from where he was. Intending to wait out until they left for Gelindzhik, Draco shrunk and repacked the automatic, idly listening as Elizabeth hummed while packing her suitcase. He was startled out of the onset of brooding as he felt the habitual vibration of the cell phone.

"Hello."

"Where are you?"

"Zone 3."

"Are you any closer to wrapping up?"

"What do you want?"

"Potter is coming to Yalta, likely in a matter of a couple of hours, maybe sooner."

"How the fuck did he track me to Yalta?"

"Airplane tickets, moron. Everyone knows you are Morozov."

"I'll keep that in mind. Potter can go screw himself over looking for me there. It'll be finished today. Tomorrow, at the latest."

"See to it that it is. I'll arrange for a helicopter when you're stable."

Draco did not bother responding, but instead flipped the phone shut. Focusing back on the house, he forced aside distracting thoughts, paying attention solely to his objective. "Well, they sure don't waste time." A silver Mercedes rolled slowly and quietly out of the back garage, raising little puffs of gray dust as it traveled up and over the hill behind the summer home, well out of sight and sound of the noisy, busy journalists.

Crouching behind the rocks, Draco slinked down the slope to where he had parked his BMW in a small clearing behind a patch of trees. Follow them to Gelindzhik, catch them at the train station, back to the BMW, call _him_, job done. Finally, the easy part.

* * *

"Hello?"

"Hello? Is this the BBC News crew at the Montgomery summer home?"

"Yes! Who is this?"

"This is a government representative," Harry bit his lip as he spoke, "Let me speak to your group leader."

"You are speaking to her. This is Hermione Granger. How may I help you, whoever you are?"

"Hermione! Oh thank god…This is Harry!"

"Harry? As in Harry Potter?"

"Yes, who else…? Never mind."

"Harry. Potter. So _now_ you decide to call! Honestly, you, mister, should be ashamed of yourself! I swear, how many years have I not heard from you?"

"Hermione, listen, I'm sorry and I swear we'll catch up as soon as this whole mess is over, but right now—"

"What mess?"

"I can explain in just a little bit. Look, I need the coordinates of the Montgomery summer home, for apparition. I need to get there immediately. You _are_ still there, right?"

"Yes…Harry does this have something to do with the MIA?"

"Hermione, I _work_ for the MIA. Of course it has to do with them. Please, I need to get these immediately. I'll explain."

"Alright, I'll give you the numerical coordinates and a physical description of where you should land. Write this down."

Listening to the recitation and quickly jotting down the numbers, Harry could just picture Hermione's huffy look, spoiled slightly by the calculating gaze. No doubt, she was already trying to figure out what had happened at her base to cause such curiosity.

"You got that? Harry?"

"Yes, see you in a bit."

Hanging up, Harry tried not to picture Hermione's disgruntled expression, knowing that he would be getting full blast of it in just a matter of moments.

* * *

"Aw fuckin' hell, _shut up you hag!!_" Blaise Zabini jumped up from his steel chair, abandoning his game of solitaire to bang on the adjacent door. Who knew little old ladies could be so damn _loud?_ "I said SHUT UP, before I shut you up myself!"

He cursed his employers three times over—not being allowed to use magic was grating on his nerves harder than the ruckus behind the locked door.

"Blah, blah, blah, can't have you tracked, blah blah, stop whining, _blah_! You try dealing with that bitch without a ready _Silencio_," Blaise collapsed back behind his little table, wincing as his bum connected with the hard metal, "Aw, man…Bastard could have picked better furnishings…hurts worse than on Sunday morning…"

Groaning again, Blaise fished for his cell phone in the sports bag at his feet. He ignored the stench of cigarettes and alcohol as he bent closer to the dirty floor, sitting back up with a triumphant smile. He knew he had called recently…what the hell. If he can't get his way, he can at least bug the guy.

"Hello?"

"Heey, how much longer do I have to stay in this shithole?"

"You will stay there until I send the pick-up team, Zabini."

"Yeah, and when is that gonna be? I want some particulars, man. A day, a week, a month? When I signed on—"

"If all goes well, you'll be out in a matter of days. Just don't anything stupid, like go outside."

Only angrier and boredom not quite relieved, Blaise started to shout into the phone even as the dial tone rang loudly in his ear. The banging had started up again next door. A reddish drop of water splashed onto the Ace of Spades, and Blaise looked up in time to catch its twin smacking him on the nose. The pipes were leaking.

Hell.

* * *

A/N: Wow, third update in three days. I can be honest now that I won't be able to stick to this pace. Expect a little break every now and then.

Ok, I've decided that I seriously need to thank my reviewers—you guys are great!! Honestly, would I be writing if I didn't have reviews?

So, all you guys that reviewed—_Moonlight Princess( :) 3 times!), Adriana Adurens, Catchy Turn, Gertrude Abbernathy, __darkshadowarchfiend__, manini (thanks for the advice!), slytherinmalfoy, Evelyn W, Shadowcub (a bit ambiguous, but oh well_). You're all fantastic!

So, hope you enjoyed that and please review ;)

-NS


	8. Chapter 7

* * *

St. Petersburg Nights

By Natasha Shaitanova

Chapter 7: Pedal to the Metal

* * *

"Oh my goodness! Harry…You look terrible!"

"Thanks for that one, Hermione," Harry joked as he pulled back from the hug his old friend had enveloped him in.

"Alright, then. What on Earth are you doing here? Not that I am unhappy to see you," Hermione placed her hands on her hips and looked at Harry over the top of her black-rimmed glasses.

Harry quickly ran a hand through his hair, before taking a quick glance at the camp-site. Everything seemed in order, "Do we have somewhere private we can talk?"

"Come," Hermione pulled Harry into a nearby tent, at the same time gesturing pointedly at two gossiping reporters, causing them to scramble out of the way. With a wave of her wand, she threw up a silencing barrier and a couple of standard wards, turning to Harry with thinly masked impatience.

Not particularly eager to test the most inquisitive person he had ever known, Harry took his laptop out of his pocket and enlarged it, opening the screen to the photo that had caught his attention.

"This is your story, right?"

Hermione barely glanced at the screen before nodding, "Yes, that photo was made from inside the vestibule, why…?"

"Look," Harry zoomed in on the picture, showing to Hermione the same close up and stills of Chertkoff he had made at the hotel room, "Do you know who this is?"

"An over-eager reporter from a rival company?" Hermione joked in a bland manner as she carefully examined the shots, "I do admit this looks suspicious. I don't understand how I missed it…"

"This is Anton Chertkoff," Harry wasted no time before getting to the reason his friend was still waiting for, "Otherwise known as Draco Malfoy."

"_What? _Malfoy!" Hermione stared incredulously at the agent, "So you are one of those people on the wild goose chase after him that's been so publicized at home?"

"The MIA wants him back and I was sent to get him and I really should not be talking to you about this…" Harry paused to rub the bridge of his nose. He was never unprofessional…except around Ron or Hermione. Old habits and all that. "Look, you have to get out of here, Hermione. I am not sure on details, but I think there is more going on here than just a thief on the run. I can't have a mission compromised by publicity and I can't have a friend hurt if things get ugly."

Hermione bristled before Harry had even reached the end of his miniature speech, "Excuse, _Agent Potter_, but had it not been for 'publicity', you would not have even known to look here for your Malfoy. So don't feel too put out when I say that I am certainly not going anywhere."

"Ok, first, don't call him _my_ Malfoy; do you realize how wrong and uncomfortable that sounds? Second…what can you tell me about what's going on in that house? I need incentive, motive, reason…badly!"

Hermione only shook her head at the desperate words, "Harry, use your head for once. Malfoy is wanted to put an end to the MagiComp scandal. Lizzie Montgomery just happens to be the daughter of the CEO of the company. Malfoy just _happens _to be sneaking around her hide-out. That definitely sounds like motive to me."

"What, you are saying he wants to kidnap her?" Harry widened his eyes in an incredulous expression, "He's a thief, albeit a good one, but not a kidnapper. Besides, what does he have to gain? By blackmailing Montgomery with his daughter, he'd only get more attention. If we are assuming that he wants to hide from the mess, then this is the opposite of what he would be doing."

Hermione frowned and drew her brows together, opening her mouth to respond, before being cut off by an interference with the wards. Signaling to Harry that the conversation had to be paused, she waved her wand and allowed a panting tech to run into the tent.

The man was babbling in monosyllables and gesturing wildly at an alien-looking metal device that was flashing in his hands.

"Mark…Mark! English!"

"Sorry, Ms. Granger! I was just checking the feed from the satellite camera," here he held up the flashing, steel object, "And this one had footage of a silver Mercedes driving away from the house, along the dirt road out back! Half the crew is already in the house and they can't find anyone. Miss Granger, I think we just lost our story!"

"No, Mark, it just got better," Hermione glanced at Harry before continuing, "Do we know where the road leads to?"

"Yeah, Patricia just checked—it merges into the main freeway to Gelindzhik. This is just a bet, but—"

"Pack up the team, we are following. There's nothing left here in any case."

As Mark rushed out of the tent, Harry turned to the head reporter, "It would appear that I need to join your crew, for the time being."

"You are our new cameraman. Uniforms and equipment are in tent 5, "Hermione paused, "I think your best bet now is to track Elizabeth. She is the only incentive Malfoy may have had to be here."

"Hermione, it doesn't add up for him to want to kidnap her, it just doesn't," Harry sighed at his friend's dubious look, "I know what it looks like, but even taking into account his…uh, treacherous nature, Malfoy does not benefit from this kidnap. And no, we can't say he's dumb."

"Well, he certainly doesn't seem to be acting logically," Hermione huffed and stared through the open tent door at the house, "Maybe you can assume safely that he's messing up."

"That would be the most amateur mistake an agent could make, no offense. I am not underestimating a Malfoy. You remember the Lucius episode, don't you?"

"Harry…"

"I know, the unmentionable. I won't say any more," Harry shrugged his shoulders apologetically, "I'm just saying that I think there's more to this mess that we don't know."

"Come on, my team is ready," ignoring Harry's last remark, the head journalist strode out of the tent and took her place again as commander of her troops, with the agent following guiltily behind. Lucius would always be a sore point, but Harry was sure now, as was Hermione, that a "dumb Draco" was not the answer to the issue.

* * *

"Dean, relax! I'll be gone only a moment."

"Elizabeth, I can stand guard at the door. It would really be best—"

"You think a girl can just go to the bathroom with a bodyguard following her every move? We're on a _train_, Dean, no boogie-man is going to get me here," Elizabeth grinned as she grabbed her purse and flounced down the aisle, heading toward the back of the train. Throwing a glance back, she ascertained that Dean had remained seated and quickly entered the small restroom, closing and locking the door.

* * *

As Dean grabbed for his coffee cup sitting in its holder, the newspaper he had been immersed in slid off his lap and into the aisle. He started to reach for it when one of the passengers stood up and handed it to him, before heading off between the rows. Bemusedly, Dean turned his head to stare a bit at the hibiscus-patterned shirt and brown flip-flops. "Must be American," he mumbled under his breath.

Draco tugged the floppy, tourist panama lower over his forehead as he reached the end of the train, seemingly heading for the men's restroom. Checking for any onlookers, he passed to the next door and held his hand slightly above the doorknob. His wand was jutting out beneath his palm as he mumbled _Alohomora_.

* * *

Her lipstick smeared sideways across her bottom lip as Lizzie startled at the sound of the door unlocking. She put the make-up back into her purse, intending to turn around and point out that the room was occupied, only to freeze as her gaze hit the mirror.

She opened her mouth and inhaled sharply, but her impending scream was muffled by a hand clamping tightly across her face. Lizzie thrashed as she was pulled backward against the taut, hard body. But as she felt the familiar sensation of being squeezed through a tight rubber tube, her senses failed and her eyes rolled back into her head, sending her into black unconsciousness.

* * *

Dean fidgeted in his seat. It had been fifteen minutes—far too long for a restroom stop or even a make-up touch-up.

Getting up, he walked briskly down the aisle to the back of the train, gaining a few raised eyebrows at his haste. He swore an old man mumbled, "When you gotta go, you gotta go…"

Reaching the restrooms, Dean paused as he took in the slightly opened women's door. Why hadn't he seen Lizzie heading out?

Pushing the door open inside, Dean's gaze focused on the make-up bag lying sideways beneath the sink, before following the lipstick rolling along the floor, leaving red smears in its wake.

* * *

"Ok, hag, I am gonna say this once—you either sit still or I really fuck this up."

Blaise glared at the woman tied to the rickety chair in front of his, wand stretched out in his hand. She only glared back silently, unable to speak for the rags tied around her mouth.

Drops of rusty water plopped down onto Zabini's greasy, black nest of hair, but the man was beyond caring. He would worry about his shampoos later—once "the bitch" was off his hands.

Focusing carefully on the figure in front of him, Zabini squinted his eyes and brought the wand level with her chest, forcefully shouting the incantation. Scarcely after the jet of blue light had left his wand, he followed it up with a _Petrificus Totalis_, aiming slightly lower this time.

As the flashes cleared, Blaise was grinning smugly. A graying, long-haired Siamese cat was laying stiffly sideways on top of the ropes in the chair's seat.

"Top that!" the man drawled as he stuffed the frozen cat into a prepared transport cage, walking swiftly out of the dilapidated house. He glanced quickly down the road before jumping into the back seat of the waiting van, setting the cage down on the floor.

Lighting up a cigarette and taking a long drag, Blaise leaned over to the opposite side of the back seat, throwing his arm over the headrest.

"So, how long is this ride gonna be?"

His companion only spared him a bored look before nodding to the driver, hiding a touch of a smirk as Zabini yelped at the sharp take-off and squeal of tires.

"Long enough."

'God, don't tell me he's another one with a fucking pole up his ass…' Zabini chewed on the butt of his cigarette as he smirked back.

"You play poker?"

* * *

A/N: Done and uploaded, as promised. Ok, things are starting to unravel (it looks like) but I promise we are not quite at the crescendo yet—still a while to go.

Reviewers—yes, I'm eternally grateful! One of these days, I am going to create and dedicate some insane youtube video to thank you guys (how else am I supposed to thank you over the web?) so…..review people!! Everybody! Click the button and jot down a word or two—I'm not asking for much. :) :)

-NS


	9. Chapter 8

* * *

St. Petersburg Nights

By Natasha Shaitanova

Chapter 8: Éclairs and Fake Badges

* * *

Alexei Gorozin swung his right arm hard up and across his shoulder as he flung his Adidas-clad body forward, watching the yellow, fuzzy ball hurtle over the net with just the right amount of spin. Jogging sideways back to the end-line, he prepared to take the next shot, only to find the ball speeding toward the far corner, leaving him no time to catch it. Match and game.

Gorozin walked forward and shoot hands with his opponent politely over the net, inviting him to the west-side outdoor patio for a cup of tea and éclairs.

"Perhaps those love-handles are growing a bit too large, Alexei? I've never seen you so out of breath after our matches."

"Nonsense!" Gorozin vaguely tugged at the T-shirt covering his rather visible belly, thankful that he had listened to the fashion tip of slimming black, "I'm just enjoying the luxuries of the retired life of a multimillionaire, thank you."

His companion only raised an eyebrow and stuck his fists on his hips, to point out the flawless torso.

"Oh, stop that, you dirty braggart!" Gorozin huffed and brushed past the man, heading toward the outdoor tables, "You may choose to stay in the active business, but I am rather happy with my stocks. I am _done_ with running and shooting."

"Yes, because now you get off on watching the evening news call you a son of a bitch daily for wrecking some fledge company."

"To each their own. You have your kinks, I have mine," and with that less-than-impressive conclusion, Gorozin plopped down in one of the chairs and motioned for Misha to serve them.

His companion drummed his fingers impatiently on the glass top of the table and stared out over the lawns and orchard. "You know," he started, "This fiasco might still work out."

"It damn well better," Gorozin scowled, "I am resting a good bit of fortune on the operation. Do you realize how much shit I'd be in if I was implicated?"

"Gorozin, if you were implicated, you might as well have been guaranteed a spot in some federal prison…of _any_ country."

"Exactly. I still don't see why you're using bloody milk-suckers for the job. Couldn't you get someone better? Someone who won't cry 'mommy' when the shit hits the fan?"

"Cut the clichés," the guest took his cup of tea as it arrived, "They are best for the job because if they _do_ get exposed, no one is going to point at us. Their history gives them their own motives."

"Like those fuckers have any kind of motive," Gorozin bit into a creamy éclair, allowing the saccharine treat to soothe his bitter words.

"Look, just be patient for another couple of days and part one is done."

"And Misha can off them?"

"I think we can find better use for them then offing them at the first opportunity…"

"I would gladly off them, sir," inserted the bartender who was still setting up the table, before acknowledging the guest's frosty stare and walking inside the mansion.

"Forget it."

Gorozin dropped the remains of his éclair on the plate, "No offing?"

"No, offing, Alexei."

Gorozin cursed and spit to the side, on the ground. "You are taking risks, you know. It would be safer with them out of the picture."

"We've been over this, Alexei. I call the shots. After all, you're retired. I'm still in the game."

"Just talking to you puts me in the game, _tovarish_. A risky game."

"Such as?"

"A gambit."

"Don't worry, you are not the pawn and you know that."

"Then the roulette."

"You and I and every other SOB we're targeting."

The men sipped their tea.

* * *

"Hermione…Hermione!" Harry hissed as he stepped out of the van.

"_What?_"

"I don't know how to use this thing!" Harry fumbled with the large camera in his hands.

"Just…hang it around your neck and ignore it. It's not as though you came here to take pictures."

Hermione led Harry and a couple of junior reporters into the train station, looking around at the milling crowds. They had tracked the silver Mercedes to the parking lot, where the car now sat abandoned. The conclusions were easy enough.

Thrusting the camera and the accompanying cords at the closest reporter, Harry separated from the small group and marched up to the ticket booths. Quickly casting the translation charm over himself, he took out the prepared police badge and flashed it at the spooked attendant.

"_Policia_! I need to know if you've seen any of these men," Harry showed the attendant pictures of Malfoy, Morozov, and Chertkoff.

"Uh…no, I don't think so, sir…" the attendant glanced back up at the "police-man" with wide eyes, unsure of what to do next.

"I want to see the security cameras of the booths from the past two hours. Get your superiors to take me there," Harry snapped at the pale youth behind the counter, hiding well his own apprehension behind a steely mask.

"Yes, sir! Just a minute!"

With the attendant hurrying off behind the booths, Harry turned his back on the lines and stared at the interior of the train station. No, he thought, he didn't need to look for Malfoy. He just needed to know what train Montgomery had taken. If she had been following this far, then Malfoy would follow her on whatever train she took as well.

Harry turned to see the attendant running back, with presumably his superior behind him.

"Sir, this is…"

Harry cut off the new arrival, "This is police business. We have reason to believe Elizabeth Montgomery booked a flight on one of your trains within the past two hours. We need to know which one, immediately."

"Sir…"

"I will not waste time on your ramblings. The train number?"

The attendant rushed back to behind his booth and brought up the history database, searching for the name Harry had given.

"Yes, just thirty-five minutes ago, sir, train number 184, cabin 12, seat…"

"I don't care what seat. Where is the train headed?"

"Uh, nowhere sir. An alert came in only about fifteen minutes ago—the train had been stopped by an emergency switch—one of the passengers panicked due to what is said to be a kidnapping. Sounds odd, doesn't it? Where would one kidnap on a train…"

Harry had stopped listening and again interrupted the attendant, "I need to interrogate any witnesses, especially the person who hit the alarm. When will they be here?"

"In about ten minutes, sir. You can meet them in the arrival area, over there…"

By the time Harry reached the corresponding area, a rather sullen group of travelers was walking grudgingly through the gates, muttering darkly to each other about rude, paranoid foreigners. Bewildered as to where to begin, Harry searched the crowd with his eyes before stopping on a rather out-of-place figure. After all, tall, intimidating, black men were not unduly common in any part of Russia.

"Excuse me!"

The man turned, surprised at the English speech, and performed a remarkably dramatic double-take as he spotted Harry. The latter had not disguised himself on the trip to Gelindzhik and Dean had no trouble recognizing his old school-mate.

"Potter!"

"…_Dean Thomas??"_

Dean laughed slightly, "Don't act so surprised, Harry. Remember MIA training school?"

"Of course!" Harry gave his fellow agent a one-armed hug (manliness dictated that any more than that would be awkward), "What are you doing here?"

"I am going to guess something along the same lines as you," Dean nodded gravely to the seats along the windows of the waiting area, indicating the need for privacy for the upcoming conversation, "MIA sent me here as Elizabeth Montgomery's bodyguard. And a hell of a job I did with that…"

"Why?" Harry asked, despite already knowing the answer. The pit of his stomach clenched tightly before dropping at Dean's words.

"Who do you think was kidnapped on that train?" Dean explained the scene at the restroom, "It had to have been a wizard—motive and capacity both point that way."

"They point to more than that, Dean," Harry collapsed into a seat, running his fingers through the black, tangled strands of hair, "This sounds crazy, but I think Malfoy kidnapped her."

"_Malfoy?_ Draco Malfoy? The asshole from school who is supposedly being chased by virtually everyone in St. Petersburg?"

"Well, he's obviously a ways from St. Petersburg now."

The two agents sat in silence, as Harry watched Hermione herd her reporters through the crowd, heading their way. "I think we really need to call Rosalind. This thing is bigger and screwier than I expected," he finally said.

Dean cocked his head to the side and stared oddly at Harry, "And how the hell do you plan to reach her?"

"Well, I kind of smashed my phone, but I have her number on my laptop and that's fine."

Dean turned fully in his seat, "Harry, are you saying that you think Rosalind is at work?"

"Dean, what are you talking about? Of course Rosalind is at work! She's always at work," Harry frowned at the other agent.

"Harry, have you not heard the news?"

"_What_ news? Why are you acting like the world ended and I missed it?"

"Harry…Rosalind is missing. No one is sure what happened—if she was kidnapped, killed, just plain left…there's been no clues, no ransom calls, _nothing_…"

Harry stared dumbly at Dean, "Missing? What do you mean missing? How can our director just up and go missing?"

"I am sure she didn't ask to be kidnapped, Harry," Dean spoke carefully, thrown slightly by Harry's behavior.

"She's missing…gods, what kind of mess did we all get into?"

"A very big and nasty one. Harry, I think it's best if we proceed together on this mission from this point. It looks like everything is coming together anyway."

"Yeah, together but by no means neatly," Harry stopped as Hermione ran up to them, cheeks flushed from fighting her way through the crowds.

"Dean? I knew it! And where's Elizabeth?"

Dean glanced sideways at Harry, "Mate, I know Hermione is your best friend, but she's still a journalist. I can't really—"

"Not this time, Dean," Harry got up and gestured for the former bodyguard to do the same, "This is not my area of expertise or yours. Our director is missing. Our mission is as screwy as it can get. We _need_ Hermione and that's that."

"Well said," Hermione nodded smugly, "Now let's go back to the van. We need to analyze this well—you lost Malfoy's track, so all we have to go on is motive."

"I still don't buy the Kidnapper Malfoy story," Dean mumbled as he followed the two through the crowd.

"We don't either."

* * *

Draco slammed against the wall as he apparated into the side alley on the outskirts of the city, slumping slightly against the bricks as Elizabeth's body sagged in his arms. Straightening up and throwing her over his shoulder, he trudged toward his conveniently parked BMW and opened the trunk. He hesitated for a second before dumping the body inside and casting a quick _Silencio_.

He got into the front seat and revved up the engine. The guilt trip would have to wait, he decided as he sped out into mainstream traffic. He had a long enough drive ahead of him without having to think of the girl in his trunk. The mission was bad enough without him actually thinking about what he was doing.

Speed-dialing 2, Draco held his cell phone to his ear and waited.

"Yes."

"Got it. I'm on my way."

"Trail?"

"Yeah, fucking Potter is not in Yalta!"

"What are you talking about?"

"I am talking about how right this minute as I'm passing the train station, he and _Granger_ of all people are throwing a fit in the parking lot."

"Get out of there."

"I don't need you to tell me that. I want full payment when I arrive. Contract finished when I hand her over."

"Of course. We'll be waiting."

Draco hung up at the same time as the other line, allowing a slight sense of satisfaction to spread through his chest. The girl would be fine—no worries there. He would get his money and walk away from the fiasco. Let the Ministry go apoplectic looking for him—he was done running and nothing hides one better than well-placed rubles.

* * *

A/N: Voila, two in a row. REVIEW, please! Reviews feed inspiration! 


	10. Chapter 9

* * *

St. Petersburg Nights

By Natasha Shaitanova

Chapter 9: Bribes and Strip Poker

* * *

**Disclaimer**: Yes, yes, I keep forgetting…anyway, all recognizable _Harry Potter_ characters belong to Rowling. OCs and plot belong to me. :)

* * *

"Harry, you have to call in for the tracking team. This is not something just you and Dean can manage."

Harry just frowned and leaned back against the hood of the journalist van, crossing his arms over his chest, "Hermione, contacting the MIA is not the best idea right now. Rosalind Cox, of all people, was kidnapped. The organization must be infested with rats and no one called in for an extermination crew."

Dean coughed to mask his snigger at the analogy, before sobering, "He's right, 'Mione. If we contact the wrong person, we could easily tip off Malfoy or whoever else is screwing with us."

"Do _not_ call me that, _Thomas_. Merlin forbid, we are not in school anymore and I would like to retain some dignity around my crew," Hermione pushed her glasses up to the bridge of her nose, "Look, what we need to figure out is where Malfoy apparated with Elizabeth. I think it's reasonable to deduce that he had to have returned to the city—he is unlikely to stay in Gelindzhik so wherever he is taking her, he probably couldn't go there without an alternate form of transportation. He could not set up a portkey without being detected either. So, do we agree that he had to apparate back to the city and then use muggle means, likely a car, to leave?"

Harry and Dean exchanged looks, having forgotten Hermione's deductive speeches. Dean shrugged in response.

"It seems reasonable enough. But I don't see how that helps us any in finding him. We can't track his magical signature without a team and we're not getting one."

"I think I get it," Harry dug in his pocket and dug out his laptop, quickly enlarging it, "If Malfoy returned to the city, then we narrow down the search area to Gelindzhik. We also have a narrowed time frame in which to look for him—and you can give us a more precise estimate, Dean. What Hermione is saying is that we need to check the satellite feed from the MIA access system and try to locate Malfoy on the recorded images."

Hermione beamed at her old friend, "Exactly. I see you've learned something in agent school."

Dean, however, was not so enthusiastic, "Guys, we are talking about searching all the satellite frames of the entire city in the past half-hour for what is likely a single clip of a shadow in an alley."

"Not exactly," Harry booted up the system and started typing away, "What you are talking about is the muggle satellite version. If we use the MIA system, then we can set it to light up the points of side –along apparition.."

"You're kidding!" Dean walking around to lean against the car next to Harry, staring at the blue screen, "How the hell does it do that?"

"The system is sensitive enough to detect the magical signatures of side-along apparition because it creates a significant magical ripple in the space," Hermione promptly responded, "Basically, any act of magic creates a disturbance in space. The bigger the act, the bigger the disturbance. Large enough disturbances can be detected and recorded, which is what this system is doing. Regular apparition does not register because it is too frequent and the signature too frail, but that is just perfect for our purposes."

"So, can this thing detect other stuff, not just apparition?"

"We are talking about a satellite sending and receiving signals from outer space," Hermione huffed impatiently, "There is little chance of it being able to detect anything beyond side-along apparition or at most some sort of magical ritual."

"Huh," Dean decided not to question Hermione any more on the matter, sure that he would only succeed in getting himself more confused, "You getting anything Harry?"

"Yeah…" Harry zoomed in on the city and pinpoints of light began to light up over the city.

"Shit!" Dean exclaimed, "How are we supposed to know which one is Malfoy?"

"Hold on," Harry narrowed down the timeline and specialized the search to side-along apparition. The trio watched as the sea of dots disappeared to leave only four flickering lights.

"Ok," Hermione clapped her hands, "We've got four sites. We can check them out easily."

"And when we get there we can run the minor magical signature scan," Dean jumped in, catching on to the plan.

"Yeah, I've got a kit with me," Harry said as he shut down the computer and re-shrunk it, "Let's go while the signatures are still fresh. The machine is not going to pick up anything if over two hours have passed."

Harry and Dean piled into the back of the van as the rest of the reporter team rushed in after them. The Dean ended up crushed against the window, with Harry squeezed between him and a burly camera-man. Both agents glanced apprehensively at the latter: no wonder everyone ran from journalists. The man was positively intimidating.

* * *

"Aw, come on! A fucking four and six?"

"A straight flush is a straight flush. Pay up."

"Damn," Blaise took off his shirt and threw it on the floor of the van. He was losing rather badly—his companion had only lost up to his socks and was smirking in a thoroughly superior manner. Izzy, as Blaise decided to christen the as of yet nameless man, dealt the next hand.

The front seat passenger, having left the game after losing the first two hands, suddenly turned and barked at the players, "Stop stripping, you pervs. We got a trail!"

Blaise, thankful for the distraction before he lost his pants, turned and stared through the back window, catching sight of a grey jeep quickly gaining on them.

"Sucker," the other man rolled down his window and stuck his wand out shooting a _Diffindo_ at the tires. He ducked back, however, as he felt a sharp pain graze his right cheek.

"Shielded! Use the guns!" The man in the front seat opened the moon-roof of the car, while fumbling with the glove department.

Blaise, in the meantime, turned to his companion, "Are you sure they are hostile?" He was cut off, however, as three shots bounced off the bullet-proof back window.

"Yeah, I'm fucking sure," Izzy growled as he wiped a hand through the blood on his face and reached into the trunk, grappling around until he pulled back with two semis.

"You _can_ shoot, right?"

"What's to know? You squeeze the trigger and whatever is on the receiving end goes bang," Blaise grinned as he accepted the weapon. He was not graced with a reply.

"Left-side shot!" The driver yelled as he took a sharp turn, exposing Blaise's window to the oncoming jeep.

"Aw fuck!" Blaise pulled the trigger on the gun, thankfully having remembered to throw off the safety, and a stream of bullets flew wild toward the grey car. The gun jumped in his hands as it fired, shattering the first-level windows of an apartment complex.

The jeep swerved and avoided Blaise's wild shots easily, taking the turn after the van as alarms went off in the apartment building. Police sirens could already be heard wailing in the distance.

The man in the front yelled at the driver, "Get us onto the highway!"

The van swerved again, sending Blaise tumbling over the back seat, just in time as bullets zipped over his head through the open window. Izzy ducked and then returned fire over Blaise's head, blasting out two of the side windows in the jeep.

"Fuck, you just made me deaf, man!" Blaise screamed as he and Izzy ducked another volley of gunfire.

"Shut up!"

The end of the street was suddenly closed off as three police cars, lights flashing, blockaded the exit. The driver threw the van around another corner, tipping the car onto two wheels for a fraction of a second. The jeep sped fast, unable to turn in time, crashing and overturning the central police car.

"Yeaaa-hey!" Blaise was cut off as he was dragged down again by Izzy.

"I said, _shut up_!"

They had emerged in the adjacent street, the jeep again behind them. It had apparently made it past the police, who now added on to the trail.

The front-seat passenger had stood up in his seat and leaned out of the moon-roof, shooting at both the jeep and the police through a sniper rifle. Two police cars soon crashed into each other as their tires were blown out, though the jeep escaped unscathed.

"Save the bullets, the jeep is armored," Izzy yelled and turned to the driver, "Take the next left and stop at the open door. Drive off as soon as we're out."

Blaise quirked his eyebrows as the driver followed the order, throwing the van into another sharp turn. "So Izzy was the one in charge, not the front-seat guy?"

Grabbing the cage with "cat", Blaise jumped out after Izzy as the car screeched to a stop. The two ran into the building under the third man's firing cover.

Once the three were inside, they barricaded the door and Izzy ordered them to get to the second floor of what appeared to be an abandoned office building.

Dressed only in pants, Blaise sorely regretted his idea to play poker. He was just thankful for the foresight in throwing on his sneakers during the chase.

Izzy pushed him through the only open door on the floor as he was about to wander past and seemed to laugh silently at his state. He too had put on his shoes and looked perfectly respectable, having retained his clothes. Blaise just glared.

Front-row guy (Blaise had become resigned to the fact that neither of his companions was going to be sharing names anytime soon), headed straight for a filing cabinet at the back of the room and opened the third drawer down.

"Hey!" Blaise snapped again as Izzy dragged him over by his upper arm and the third man thrust a manila folder into his hands.

"Count down from seven and be sure to hold that cage tightly," the man stepped back as Izzy took hold of the folder and clicked on the safety latch on his gun.

"Put on the safety," both turned to Blaise, "Wouldn't want to shoot anything during the trip."

"We're using a portkey?" Blaise huffed as he was met with two raise eyebrows, "Obviously." He did as ordered and secured the gun.

The third man loaded a new clip into his gun, "Start counting."

Loud footsteps could be heard ascending the stairs and running along the corridor.

"Three…two…one…"

As Blaise felt himself being tugged away from the room, the third man cocked his gun and fired at the doorway.

* * *

Draco waited until early morning to cross the border into Ukraine, opting for the most tiring possible shift in the border security. His passport was flawless, his smile charming, his suit impeccable, and still the damn officer wanted to check his trunk.

"Sir, I am in rather a hurry and would prefer not to waste time on that," not at all subtly, Draco took out his bulging wallet and raised his eyebrows at the officer. The message could not be clearer.

"And this will take just moments. You can save your cash," the officer motioned for the keys and for Draco to step out of the car.

'What the hell,' Draco thought as he obliged, 'Since when is a policeman not accepting a bride??'

Handing over the keys, Draco followed the man around to the back of the car.

"Please stand aside sir, that is the protocol," the officer, turned his back to Draco and opened the trunk, "What the HELL?" The officer twisted around only to find Draco barely a foot away from him.

"_Obliviate_!" Draco held his wand level with the officer's forehead before stuffing it into his pocket, "You saw nothing. You do not remember a car driving by this night. You are going to open the gates."

Draco was not sure when he had mixed his obliviation spell with an imperius and neither did he care. He snatched back the keys and slammed shut the trunk. The gates were already open and he sped through, leaving behind a frazzled officer.

* * *

A/N: Ok, I _had_ to make it strip poker…what else would Blaise be playing?

Anyway. I really, _really_ appreciate that **Moonlight Princess** and **Catchy Turn** review so regularly—you guys are fantastic!—but I can't seriously be writing this story for two reviewers only.

So please, people, I ask you to REVIEW because there is **little point in writing without feedback**. It is _extremely_ frustrating. It's not that much to ask for.

-NS


	11. Chapter 10

* * *

St. Petersburg Nights

By Natasha Shaitanova

Chapter 10: Undead

* * *

Disclaimer: Yeah yeah, I don't own _Harry Potter_. I do own this little thriller.

A/N: **PEOPLE, I MADE A HUGE MISTAKE! **Ok, basically I screwed up big at the end of the chapter on the first posting and this is a re-edit. If you read this already RE-READ the ending because it is completely different! I messed up with a name. All good now :)

* * *

_December 31, 2007_

The Malfoy Manor stood imposing and cold, unwavering against the winter's assault of hail and blizzard. A small black-cloaked gathering, led by Narcissa Malfoy, crowded around a high, black-and-silver coffin, shut tight against their peering gazes.

Golden-blonde hair gathered neatly into a bun under her dark shawl, Narcissa placed two white lilies on top of the coffin and proceeded to recite the eulogy she had prepared just last evening. She was dry-eyed.

The figures bowed their midnight-black hoods and murmured a few standard Latin phrases in respect as the coffin was lowered into the ground with a levitation charm, seemingly floating upon the mist that had been conjured up below it, purely for an aesthetic feel.

The next day, the new year would start with glaring highlights from the Daily Prophet: "_Tragic death of the Lord of the Malfoy Manor_", "_Malfoy line ends with the death of the Lord and disappearance of the heir"_, and of course "_Famed Death Eater meets his sticky end". _

The reign of Lucius Malfoy was over.

_Present_

Formerly long hair short and gelled, grey eyes covered by Gucci sunglasses, and with the silk Italian suit jacket hanging casually over his left arm, Lucius Malfoy gazed almost cheerfully over the estate's golf course.

"I never understood the American fascination with golf," the owner of the estate and Gorozin's tennis partner remarked lightly as he joined Lucius on the grass, "But these expansive lawns with little ponds scattered here and there look terribly pleasing, no?"

The two nodded lazily, humming slightly under their breath, before turning as Gorozin approached from the sidewalk.

"Team 2 is arriving anytime in the next half hour. Perhaps it would be best if Mr. Malfoy was directed upstairs?"

"I have had quite enough of hiding in the past five years, Alexei," Lucius thinned his lips in a tight smile at the other man, "It would seem that it is almost time to shock the wizarding world with my sudden resurrection."

The owner of the estate chuckled, before leading his guests back to the golf car, "Aren't you worried about being convicted again?"

"It has been _five years_," Lucius reiterated, as though his companions had missed that fact, "And the interest on my vaults has only grown. Who on Earth is going to bother?"

"Why, Agent Potter, of course."

"Agent Potter was supposed to have been dealt with," Lucius glared at the two Russians, "Why have you not informed me he is still a problem."

"He is not a _pressing_ problem," Gorozin rubbed the back of his neck, "But he is not exactly dead either."

"So make him dead."

The owner only smiled indulgently, "You propose we do what your old Lord and the rest of his gang found impossible. I am certainly flattered, but such drastic actions are neither probably nor advantageous."

"Ah," Lucius leaned back against the soft seat of the golf car, "Bait."

The Russians smirked, "Bait."

* * *

_Previous Day_

Harry, Dean, and Hermione walked briskly down the dank alley, carefully stepping around the overflowing trash cans. The last site pinpointed on the satellite search was looking decidedly unpromising.

"Figures that the last one is the one we need," Dean grumbled as he avoided kicking a stray cat.

"Let's just hope this isn't another dead end."

Harry took out the detection kit he had spoken of in the parking lot. Quickly assembling the buzzing metal contraption, he placed it on a dry spot in the middle of the alley. Pointing his wand at it, he whispered the activation spell and stood back.

The trio held their breath as the detector hummed and issued a short screech. The display screen on the top of the metal contraption displayed a sequence of numbers.

"Ok, I hope this is not falling through like the rest," Harry muttered as he entered the sequence into the wizard registry on the MIA system. The computer took only seconds to search before flashing the result.

"YES!" Dean clapped Harry hard on the back before peering closer at the computer screen, "Hey, why does it have Lucius Malfoy listed as a secondary candidate?"

"They are obviously closely related," Hermione joined in, "So their registry numbers would be almost identical. Plus, look at the side-note next to Lucius Malfoy's entry."

Her French-manicured finger underlined the bold, red letters at the top of the entry: "Deceased."

"I don't think we have to worry about him."

"Alright, forget Lucius," Harry cut off his companions, "Hermione, what are we supposed to do now? All we know is that he apparated here, but there is no other trail."

"Don't snap at me, Harry Potter, if you expect an answer," Hermione's voice was a touch testy, "You have the muggle satellite version on that system, right?"

"Oh yeah."

"See if you can find anything in the frames of this alley around an hour ago."

As Harry started the search, Dean sat down onto the filthy ground next to him and took out his cell phone, speed dialing 2.

"What are you doing?"

"Calling Elizabeth. I just remembered that she keeps her cellphone with her at all times," Dean replied as he listened to the ring, "Even if she doesn't pick up, maybe—"

"_Hello?"_

The whisper was barely heard over the speaker phone but the trio immediately leaned closer to the phone in bewilderment.

"_Dean?"_

"Elizabeth?" Dean exclaimed, "Where are you?"

"I am not sure…I think I'm the trunk of a car," three hearts clenched simultaneously at the fearful whispers.

"Are you hurt?"

"No…I'm just really thirsty."

"Elizabeth, can you tell me what happened on the train?"

"I was in the bathroom, putting on my make-up, when the door behind me opened and a man came in. He was dressed in this ridiculous tourist outfit."

"What happened after that?"

"I don't remember…I just woke up a little while ago."

Scratchy tones of static interrupted her before Elizabeth suddenly sounded urgent, "The car stopped! Oh God, Dean, what if they heard me?"

"Hang up!" Dean hated to say what he did but there was no other choice. The last thing they needed was for Malfoy to trace the call, not to mention cause more trouble for Lizzie.

Silent, the trio stared at the flashing screen of the phone, signaling the end of the call.

"She's ok. She has to be. We'll find her," Dean mumbled, not believing his own words. They sounded awkward and flat.

"Ok, I've got the frames," Harry interrupted the pregnant pause, "There was car parked here for about an hour, then it's gone. Here are the frames in the minutes just prior to its departure. Because of the odd angle, we can't see much more than the hood and side windows."

"Look!" Hermione jabbed her finger the corner of a frame, where they could barely see the flowery sleeve of a shirt and a pale hand flopping down next to the elbow, "Didn't Lizzie say he was dressed like a tourist?"

"Fast forward to where it drives away," Dean told Harry as he squinted at the car. The frames flashed past, before—

"There, stop! Can you improve the resolution?" The back bumper of the car came into view and the blurry numbers of the back plate stood out clearly, black on white.

"Right," Harry stood up, laptop in hands as he saved the picture, "Hermione, we need you to get this picture to the media, the internet, the TV, whatever you need to do to get mass attention. Dean and I are going to alert the law enforcement here, in Russia, in Georgia, hell in Ukraine too, and anywhere we have to to be on the lookout for this car. By tomorrow morning, we need the region buzzing with the news, okay?"

"You know you are just forcing him to go even farther under, Harry."

"We need a trail and we need it badly. If we can get at least one solid tip, then I don't care how far under he wants to burrow. I am not letting this case go cold."

* * *

"Get _off_, you son of a—"

"Okay, okay! It's not like you're not enjoying it anyway," Blaise grumbled as he dodged the expected punch and got to his feet, dropping the cage with the cat on the floor of the plush living room.

Scowling, Izzy brushed off his pants and straightened his shirt, before turning to the house elf groveling behind a couch, "Go get your master, elf."

"Jeez, did you have to scare the living daylights out of that thing?"

"Are you a rights activist now, whelp?" Izzy smirked as Blaise crossed his arms over his bare chest, looking decidedly uncomfortable.

"No, but you don't have to look at it like you would like nothing better than roast it over a bonfire."

"Careful there, whelp. Don't hurt yourself with such long sentences."

"Oh shut it," Blaise turned away and cast around with his eyes for anything which could be used to cover his bare torso. Facing his employers in such attire would definitely not make a good impression.

"Hey, elf!" Blaise yelled at the empty air, "Guest needs help here!"

He could feel smirking eyes boring into his back and the feeling sent shivers up his neck. 'I am never playing strip poker again…'

His thoughts were interrupted as a cool, smug voice reverberated through the room, "I see you have not changed much since school days, Mr. Zabini."

Blaise whirled around, only to yelp in surprise, "Mr. _Malfoy_?" He paused mutely, "Aren't you dead?"

"Obviously not," Lucius replied in a bored tone before moving to stand next to Izzy. Blaise's mouth hung down mid word as a shimmering light passed between the two men and his companion seemed to vanish into thin air.

"What the hell did you do to Izzy?"

"Izzy?" an elegantly raised eyebrow rose into the silver hair falling onto Lucius' forehead, "Well, I certainly did not name him that. Your companion was a projection that we created to guide you here. Same goes for the other man that stayed behind."

"We?" Blaise struggled to keep pace with the onslaught of information.

"Gorozin and myself. In fact, your Russian employers are going to be here any moment. Tiffy!"

The groveling house elf reappeared in the middle of the living room, "Master?"

"Find something suitable for this idiot to wear."

Blaise forgot to bristle at the insult as his jeans disappeared, only to be replaced immediately by dress pants and a silk purple shirt.

"Purple? Look, I may be half naked but I am not a poof, elf!"

"That is a hypocritical statement to make, Zabini, after playing strip poker with two other men," Lucius drawled leisurely as he seated himself comfortably on a leather couch.

"I—" Blaise's rebuttal was cut off as Gorozin and the owner walked into the living room from the veranda.

"Ah, Mr. Zabini!" Gorozin exclaimed and encased the bewildered man in a crushing hug, as though he had know him all his life, before kissing him soundly on each cheek in a traditional greeting. Blaise thought it reminded him of American Mafioso movies.

"Come take a seat, have a cup of tea," Gorozin pushed Blaise toward the couch before turning to the elf, "Tiffy! Open that cage would you? Let us not keep Ms. Cox in such indignity for any longer."

A/N: yes yes, terribly sorry for not having updated for a while. But here you go—action is developing and some things are starting to make some sense……..maybe.

* * *

THANK YOU to all reviewers!!!! And as usual, I ask EVERYONE to **pleasereview**. Reviews fuel inspiration, don't forget that!

Merci et au revoir!

-NS


	12. Chapter 11

* * *

St. Petersburg Nights

By Natasha Shaitanova

Chapter 11: Boom Boom Boom Boom, I Wantchu In Mah Room

* * *

Disclaimer: The usual. I don't own _Harry Potter_. I own my little plot.

A/N: **Everyone, I made an AWFUL MISTAKE in the previous chapter. Please re-read the ending, otherwise things won't make sense. They didn't make sense in the first version actually. Basically, I typed "Montgomery" instead of "Cox". SORRY.**

Ok, since my dear reviewers raised a couple of questions, I'll answer them here.

first off, I didn't technically resurrect "X", he just never died. and don't worry, Harry will track them somehow.

as for Lucius...well :) we'll just have to see what's going on there ;)

* * *

Draco was driving along the scenic route around Odessa, heading for the coastal mansions sprawl just a few miles west of his current location. His window was open and a cool, salty breeze fluttered through his hair, bringing with it the velvety warmth of midday sun.

Draco may have even enjoyed the ride, had it not been for the fact that he had a squad of police cars on his tail and he was speeding about 50 kilometers over the speed limit.

Honestly, Draco did not understand why they were chasing him. He had left the border sterile of his presence and had not even stopped since then, except at a gas station. He had been careful.

As the sirens again screeched and he took a sharp turn on a red-light intersection, Draco took out his cell-phone and bounced it regretfully in his hand before dialing.

"Gorozin."

"I am almost there, but I have a heavy police trail."

"So, lose it."

"And how the fuck do I do that? I slice their tires and more of them just enter the chase."

"Look in the glove compartment."

Draco stifled a growl of annoyance. It was always the glove compartment, as though it was the ultimate answer to any issue—

And hell yes it was! Draco blinked mutely at the three grenades lying peacefully on top of a flowery handkerchief, rolling slightly with the movements of the car.

"You put _grenades_ in my car? And you didn't feel the need to tell me first??"

"You're fine aren't you? Now use them and _make sure_ you lose your trail before you get anywhere near the mansion."

Draco threw the cell onto the passenger's seat and focused on the road. He could throw a grenade just in front of the cars, the impact flipping them onto their backs but perhaps not killing anyone. Or maybe he could just not care and save his own ass. It wasn't a very hard choice.

The policemen in the leading car yelled simultaneously over their radios as they recognized the black object hurtling toward them, going silent as it smashed through the windshield.

In seconds, the front four police cars roared to life in miniature fireballs, heedless of the passengers. Just out of spite, Draco threw a strong augmenting charm through his open window and stared grimly into his central mirror at the slowly fading carnage.

He sped up, turning onto the coastal dirt road Gorozin had advised. The danger had passed; all of the city's police would now be drawn to the explosions, leaving him unhindered just long enough.

His eardrums were still buzzing lightly from explosions, but his head was clear. The end was too close and he was too tired.

* * *

"Harry! Harry, Harry, Harry!"

The man in question stepped grumpily out of the shower of their hotel room, towel wrapped securely around his waist as he dried off his hair.

Dean, in the meantime, would not desist.

"Harry! We got a hit, a good one!" He waved a piece of paper under the other agent's nose, his excitement contagious.

"How good?" Harry wasted no time in forgetting about the towel hanging on top of his head and grabbed at the paper Dean was waving around.

"These are Odessa coordinates…"

"Yeah, the Odessa Police Department just called. They are chasing our car as we speak," Dean pointed out the digits on the paper, "Those coordinates I got off the map according to where they said the chase was. It's a bit farther west than they actually are now, but I expect they'll move even farther along by the time we get there."

Harry handed back the coordinates before moving to the computer, "Alright, that red trail, is that them?" he pointed to an edited map on the screen.

"Yeah, that's them. The little star is where we'll end up. Notice that it's right next to a car rental agency."

Harry stared for a moment longer at the map, before jumping up and heading for the bathroom, in search of his old clothes, "We're leaving now. There's no time to waste."

"And Hermione?"

"She can catch up later. I am sure she will be able to get the media all over this one."

"Your call. I'll pack."

* * *

Mere ten minutes later, Harry and Dean apparated behind the car rental agency building and quickly made their way to the front.

Dean whipped out his cell-phone, before pointing at the front doors, "I'm gonna call the police for an update, can you get the car?"

Receiving a nod in return, he dialed the number and waited. Five rings, ten…the lead policeman was still not picking up.

'Maybe they're busy with the chase…' He dialed again, all with the result of an answering machine babbling Russian at him at rapid-fire pace.

He gave up as Harry headed over with the keys.

"I couldn't contact them."

"Then we follow the route on the map."

* * *

"—Completely undignified, don't think for a second that you can just—"

"Maybe we should have kept her a cat?" Gorozin crossed his arms and leaned against the back of the sofa after casting a quick _Silencio_ over Rosalind Cox.

"She wouldn't look quite as dramatic on television," the owner of the estate walked into the room, tossing his tennis racquet to Tiffy as he went, "Team 1 is about ready to arrive."

"Two, three or four?" Lucius twisted slightly in his seat to look over the sofa.

"With any luck, all four," the owner scooped up a rather Oriental-looking cup of tea from the coffee table, "We just need to be patient and leave a heavy trail; they'll come."

Tired of the cryptic dialogue, Blaise gathered his breath and interrupted, fidgeting slightly with his purple shirt, "Look, ok, can we just look at the big issue here—_how_ is Malfoy alive? I was at his funeral!"

"There's a reason it was a closed-casket funeral, Zabini," Lucius drawled as he too sipped a cup of rose-bush tea.

"Well ok, but what happened? Why did you stage your death then?"

"I am in no mood to repeat the story a dozen times. We will wait until Team 1 arrives."

More than slightly miffed, Blaise dropped into a nearby armchair and turned away from the three other men, eyes narrowed and mouth set.

"You make a wonderful 10-year-old, Blaise," Gorozin laughed slightly as Blaise's gaze only darkened and the younger man shifted around in his seat.

"Prick."

* * *

"Shit."

"Yeah."

"_Big_ shit."

"No kidding."

"Big, messy, smel—"

"Ok, we got it."

Harry and Dean stood in the middle of the coastal road, waving their hands in front of their noses to dispel the smell of carnage and fire. Three new police cars had arrived on the scene, along with a fire truck, working quickly to neutralize the debris from the explosion.

There were no illusions of survivors on anyone's mind.

"You really think Malfoy would do this?"

"They were chasing him, Harry, there was no one else."

"It could have been an accident," Harry didn't bother to hide the doubt in his voice. They both already knew the truth—the lead policeman had radioed the station about the grenades as they had soared toward his vehicle. The next moment, the line was static.

"The trail's still fresh, we gotta move."

Dean shot a look at the busy policemen, crowding around the carnage, and moved toward their car, "There's just enough space left on the road for us to slip by. Any plans on where to go next?"

"Follow the road until the next intersection. Then stop and ask for any witness account of the car."

It was a vague plan, but the best they had under the circumstances. Dean revved up the engine.

* * *

Draco was by no means a happy man. The grenades were stronger than he had hoped; he did not want to think of the fate of the police officers in those cars.

The _Silencio _on the trunk had worn off and he could hear muffled moans with every sharp turn. He sorely resisted the temptation to scream "Shut up!"

By far the worst of his troubles, however, was that Draco was lost.

He couldn't understand it. The directions were easy, the traffic light, the roads new and maintained. And yet, as he kept looping around the area, he could not find the right street.

"With my luck, by the time I find it, there'll be a party of cops waiting at the front door," he thought, "Maybe even Potter too, just to spite me."

Sure enough, his next turn was met with a police car hidden behind the building, running a radar shift. The sirens went on with an ungodly wail and the car pulled out behind Draco, determined to pull him over for speeding. They had not yet connected the license plate with that issues in the morning's alert.

* * *

"Harry, this is bloody hopeless. These people don't even understand what you're saying!"

"Would _you _like to try?"

"Hell no! I'm just saying there's no point in—"

Dean never got to finish his sentence as the ricocheting echoes of gunfire cut him off.

"Maybe—"

"Yeah."

"But that means—"

"Yeah."

"Let's go."

* * *

Lucius, Gorozin, and the owner of the estate all sipped their tea in an oddly synchronized fashion, smirking slightly as the transmitter on the coffee table relayed the shots fired from a semi-automatic. The static was slight but the muffled pops of the police car's wheel were easily audible. Even Lucius looked appreciative.

Blaise tugged on his sleeves and bit on his lip, unable to keep still with the mounting anticipation. He didn't know much, not who was in Team 1, not why they were shooting, not why they were so important. But by the looks on the faces of the men around him, it had to be good. No one in the room took notice of Cox, sitting bound to a chair and mute by her own accord.

"Fucker! Not him! Them!" The voice sounded tinny over the transmitter, almost comic, but caused Gorozin to chuckle in relief.

"All four then."

* * *

A/N: Sorry, very late update. The next chapter will be the climax, I promise.

**Please REVIEW**!!! Reviews are wonderful, wonderful things!

I hope you enjoyed this one!

-NS

Dosvedaniya :)


	13. Chapter 12

* * *

St. Petersburg Nights

By Natasha Shaitanova

Chapter 12: Raving Embrances

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**Disclaimer**: I don't own _Harry Potter_ characters or any references to the events from the books. I _do_ own my plot and any new characters.

* * *

Ronald Weasley stormed into the lobby of the ministry and marched resolutely past the gaping blonde secretary.

"Excuuuuuse me, Mister!" she abandoned her wad of ever-lasting bubblegum to focus instead on the stranger disturbing the shiny peace of the vestibule.

But Ron paid no heed to security or secretaries. He swept through the elevators and the hallways, pausing not a second before throwing wide open the doors of his destination—Liam Montgomery's office.

"Mr. Weasley! What is the meaning of this?" Montgomery maintained a blank face as he slipped his hand subtly into a drawer behind his desk, positioning his fingers barely above the security sensor engrained in the wood.

Instead of a verbal answer, Ron threw down a newspaper on top of the Minister's official papers, nodding jerkily at the picture on the front page.

Montgomery had already seen what may very well have been the very first copy of the paper that morning, but nevertheless put on a surprised face for his visitor.

"Oh my!"

A fiery, leaping fireball graced the photo in the center of the page, silhouetting the two MIA agents in the most picturesque way as they seemingly conversed and pointed to something out of the frame. The caption was even bolder than the image, however: "_Agents Potter and Thomas trace the kidnapping of the Minister's daughter to Draco Malfoy."_

"'Oh my?'" Ron spoke in a scratchy, hollow voice, grating from disuse, "That is your reaction to your own daughter being kidnapped by England's Most Wanted Wizard?"

"I read the paper, Mr. Weasley, and I addressed the nation this morning on television," Montgomery looked up from the photo and leaned back in his chair, "Surely, you must have expected that I would know long before now?"

"The article said the cars were blown up by muggle means. The Draco Malfoy everyone knows does not use muggle means. My best friend is on a wild goose chase against someone much more dangerous than Malfoy; his boss has disappeared and the MIA is in chaos. Your daughter is kidnapped and in the middle of this whole mess. _My sister is dead_. And you sit here and tell me it's not news?"

"Mr. Weasley, the Ministry is doing everything it can—"

"The hell it is!" Ron pounded his fist on the dark-wood desk and ignored the shouts growing louder outside the office, "The Ministry and the country is being thrown into chaos by a handful of foreign terrorists! And all you say on television is that you are 'dealing with it'! How are you dealing, _sir?_"

"You have already overstepped your bounds, Mr. Weasley. Do not force me to take you into custody."

"Do you think I _care, you son of a bitch?_"

Montgomery recoiled and scrambled out of his enormous leather chair as he was suddenly facing the cold, silver barrel of a gun.

"_You killed my sister!" _Ron did not notice the office door bursting open behind him, "_You killed her! I am gonna kill you, you sick bastard!"_

"Freeze!" The security team had arrived and all pointed their wands at the screaming man, ready to stun, but fearful to make sudden moves.

Ron spun in a wild circle and fired off shots, catching the walls but missing the other occupants of the office.

"_You killed my sister!_ You want to kill Harry too! That's why you're not helping him, or searching for Rosalind Cox!"

Ron turned to face the guards, eyes wide and grin manic.

"He's the new Dark Lord, gentlemen! Don't let him run our country into the ground! He's the new _Voldemort!_" Ron gestured at the shaking minister with his smoking gun, laughing hysterically as the man tried to crouch behind his desk.

"I won't let you help him! He'll kill us all!" the raving man tried to point his gun again at the guards, but instead fell back against the plush carpet as the bright red streaks of two stunners hit him in the side and mid-chest.

His eyes were still open, their frenzied gleam dying slowly as his consciousness slipped.

* * *

Draco swung hard around another turn, driving circles around the same few blocks. He dared not veer off on the right course—his car would not outrun the superior model chasing it.

Glancing constantly into the rearview mirror and ignoring everything that wasn't the silver blur behind him, Draco barely suppressed a panicked yelp as a loud voice filled the car cabin, filtering through the radio.

"Malfoy, stop fucking around and drive to the mansion," Gorozin's voice was unmistakable.

"Not unless you want my trail for company."

"Potter's invited for tea, then. Now stop wasting time and get the fucking package here already."

Draco could not help the increased cursing at the other end.

"Give me fifteen."

Everything seemed to be coming to a head.

* * *

"Dean, get your foot off the damn breaks!"

"Do you _want_ the car to turn over?" despite the comment, Dean threw the car into the next gear and stepped down on the gas pedal. They weren't gaining any ground, but at least they had not lost the black BMW speeding a block or so ahead.

"He's leaving the area," indeed, both cars sped out onto a straight stretch of a road out of the populated area, soon tumbling onto a dirt road leading toward the beach, "What the hell is he doing?"

Harry's bewilderment was all too obvious. The BMW was smaller and closer to the ground, not to mention sporting a weaker engine. The new terrain could only be a disadvantage. The agents drove mutely, searching for reason behind the tactic.

Suddenly, as a large mansion came into view through the dust, realization hit Harry, sending a jolt through brain and body.

"Get off the road!"

"What?"

"Get off the road, now!" Harry almost grabbed for the wheel, "Drive behind the bushes—there!"

The Russian car grumbled and hissed as it was plunged off the road, rocks and tall grasses scraping at its underside. Dean barely avoided the largest obstacles before throwing the vehicle into reverse and backing into the grove of what vaguely resembled boxwood.

"A trap?"

"What else could it be," Harry got out of the car, checking the equipment he stuffed into his jacket as he went, "Malfoy knew we were behind him; he meant for us to follow him here."

The two agents walked around to the trunk side of the car and peered through the branches of a large bush at the mansion around 50 or so yards away.

"Perhaps, we could sneak around the grounds to the back and wait until darkness fell, then—"

"I don't think so, mate."

A dozen camouflage-clad figures, armed with full automatics, arose from behind rocky outcroppings and crept toward the pair of Englishmen in a tightening circle. The two stood back to back, before raising their hands and planting them on the backs of their heads.

One of the camouflaged men made a forward movement, breaking away slightly from his circle of look-alikes.

"Wands, weapons—on top car. No sudden moves, no talk."

Gesturing with the automatic to assist the broken English, his message could not have been clearer. The confrontation lasted seconds before the hostages were stripped from all possessions and dragged toward the mansion.

Harry barely had time to throw an apologetic glance at Dean, meaning "Sorry, I dragged you into this."

A shrug was his response.

* * *

Draco parked the BMW in front of the curving, neat brick path leading to the front doors and proceeded toward the mansion. He left the "package" in the trunk—he _very badly_ wanted his payment.

The front door was open and to Draco's surprise, a house elf appeared in the foyer, gesturing for him to follow.

The house was by all accounts fabulous. Aivazovsky paintings graces the walls, Turkish rugs flaunted their intricate designs at the intruders, all manner of decorative trinkets graced the cherry-wood furniture. Draco was especially drawn to the zirconium and obsidian chess set, but the damnable house elf hurried him along.

"Master awaits the white-haired youth. Come!"

Tiffy bowed Draco through the last doorway to the back sitting room, but he did not get a chance to survey the new surroundings as was suddenly yanked forward into a crushing embrace.

"Draco, you son of a bitch! You abandoned me!"

The black and purple mass that was obscuring Draco's vision moved backwards a few inches and he was confronted with a grinning face of Blaise Zabini.

"I missed you, you know."

Slightly shaken, Draco blinked at his school friend, trying to comprehend the turn of events.

"_Blaise?_" a thousand questions swam at the front of Draco's mind. He wanted to ask what the man was doing there, how he knew Gorozin, why hadn't he looked for him, how his life had been… "Seven years and you still try to molest me?'

"You're very molestable," smugly, Blaise pulled the blond closer to him, still grinning and laughing at the absurdity of the meeting.

"Zabini, get your hands off my son."

Draco's heart and mind froze at the cold voice. He stood still as Blaise let go of him and moved swiftly to the side.

Lucius got up leisurely from the sofa and leaned against its back, cocking his head to the side, his long hair gracefully flowing with the movement. He did not speak, but simply surveyed Draco with an almost curious gaze, as though he was contemplating a work of art at a gallery.

Draco barely registered the other occupants of the room—Gorozin, a man in sports clothes, an old woman—as his sights seemed to tunnel in on the Malfoy patriarch and refused to shift. Steel met steel as he matched the man's gaze with his own.

"_Father."_

"Indeed," Lucius walked forward with perfect lightness in his step, defying age with customary arrogance, "You of all people should know, Draco, the duplicity of information."

"The coffin was empty."

"No need to state the obvious," walking around his son, Lucius tutted, "You are unkempt—why?"

"I am a criminal on the run and on a mission. That seems a good excuse to forget the manicure," Draco awakened from his stupor, taking the new information in stride. Fury clawed hungrily below his cool exterior, hissing and arching her back at the older Death Eater.

Lucius seemed to smile indulgently, although Draco saw it as more of a grimace, "I didn't think you would regress so much in seven years, _son_. The Russian people are known for their manners, you know."

Reunion over, Draco turned his attention away from his father to soothe the itching urges of Fury below his hands and on the tip of his tongue. He focused instead on the other occupants of the sitting room.

"Gorozin, I presume?"

"It seems we have the fortune to see each other's faces after all, Mr. Malfoy," Gorozin accepted Draco's handshake, squeezing harder than what would procure a casual wince, "But people tend to be forgetful these days."

Nodding in comprehension and fighting the impulse to rip his hand away, Draco nodded at the man in tennis clothes and turned his back on the older men to face Blaise instead.

"I thought you dreamt of Las Vegas."

"Every night," the grin was impossibly wide and revealed twin rows of pearly teeth with practiced mastery, "Maybe after this job I'll book the flight and pack a suitcase." 'Want to come?' was left unsaid.

"I never understood the American appeal," Draco sniffed as only a Malfoy could (as his father had previously demonstrated for the present audience), "Moscow has fantastic casinos as well."

"Americans speak English," Blaise injected a tone of finality in to the explanation.

It merely elicited a chuckle, "If you can call it that…"

The owner of the mansion twitched his lips in a smile and was about to join his favorite style of conversation when a pager clipped to his belt beeped in a thoroughly obnoxious manner. He spared it but one glance.

"Tiffy! Make young Mr. Malfoy presentable. Our last guests are here."

Draco was ready to object but instead he was immediately coughing on a little cloud of dark blue smoke. Throwing the cigar on the hardwood floor and grounding it with the heel of his rather new leather boots, he straightened and tugged on the strict black suit, adjusting the collar of the light-navy shirt underneath.

He did not bother asking who the guests were as the camouflaged captain marched into the room with a couple of his men, depositing two ruffled agents in front of Gorozin and their employer, walking out as swiftly as they had arrived.

Harry was the first to look up from his position on the floor and gaze at the figured crowded around the room. His eyes landed on the owner and Draco thought someone had petrified him. Bright emerald eyes widened with mostly wonder, but the hint of horror was all too obvious as he spoke:

"_Sasha Mishkin?"

* * *

_

A/N: I do believe they call this a cliffie…..well, voila. I updated sooner than I expected, if you'll believe that!

Reviewers—thank you, infinitely! You are truly wonderful, wonderful people!

Readers—**PLEASE REVIEW**. That's all I ask—drop by a word or two. :) You know you want to!

-NS


	14. Chapter 13

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**St. Petersburg Nights**

**Chapter 13**: Uneasy Nights

By Natasha Shaitanova

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**Disclaimer**: I don't own the _Harry Potter _series.

* * *

"_Sasha Mishkin?"_

Attention in the room shifted to the owner of the house, who smiled graciously in return.

"Yes, hello, Harry. I see you remember me from Moscow?"

Suddenly, everything made sense. Harry thought about how it was that Malfoy always seemed to be a step ahead—and how he had left the messages on Mishkin's machine about Yalta.

"Bastard," he hissed, "Were you ever an agent at all? Where is the real Mishkin?"

"Quite unavailable."

And with that, the owner turned away from his captives to speak in rapid Russian into his cell phone.

Gorozin and Lucius chose that moment to grab the tied up agents and drag them over to the mute Rosalind. Noticing who was dragging him, Harry had another double take but kept his mouth shut. The MIA has long suspected that casket had been empty.

After looking over Rosalind and ensuring she seemed to be unhurt, Harry turned his attention to the rest of the room. He took a moment to study Zabini and Malfoy, where they stood ignoring the proceedings. He hadn't really seen either since school days; Malfoy since sixth year.

Harry would be lying to himself if he fancied there was some significant change in appearance, but he couldn't help but notice that Malfoy was…off. He looked perhaps sullen, perhaps annoyed, it was difficult to tell.

The quiet tension of the room was disturbed yet again as a pair of camouflaged men came in carrying Elizabeth Montgomery, conspicuously unconscious in her silence. She, too, was dumped unceremoniously next to the other three prisoners.

"I do hope you have the _appropriate _facilities for your guests, Shaitanov?" pretenses aside, Lucius addressed the owner by his real name.

"If you mean dungeons, then no," Shaitanov sat comfortably in his lounge chair and sipped the tea that the house elf dutifully replenished, "I am sure we can find appropriate accommodations in the basement, however."

Gorozin nodded, "Well, they are all here, they are all in a stupor. Now is as good time as any to relocate them."

"And questioning?"

"Can wait until after they've had time to mull things over," Gorozin nodded to Lucius, "And now would be a good time to set up the contact with England."

"Alright," Shaitanov clapped his hands and pressed a button on his pager, "Tiffy, take young Misters Malfoy and Zabini up to their rooms. Gentlemen, we have a few things to discuss."

* * *

Draco did not bother engaging in much of a discussion as he and Blaise were led upstairs, despite the other's efforts. He waved a lazy goodbye at his old friend and closed the door behind him when they finally reached the guest bedrooms.

Not bothering to study his surroundings, Draco plopped down onto the bed and threw an arm over his eyes.

His father was alive. He was _here. _He was _involved_.

No, Draco was not getting his money and getting out. He groaned as he realized just how involved he suddenly was in whatever scam the businessmen were plotting.

Draco did not trust his father. He did not trust Gorozin. But above all, he did not trust Shaitanov. The prisoners they had acquired were no small load—two MIA agents, one of whom happened to be none other than Saint Potter, the daughter of the Minister of Magic, not to mention MagiComp Chairman, and the old woman, whom Draco did not recognize but could bet was on the same scale of importance.

He rolled over and tugged the covers over his body, blocking out all thought.

* * *

Harry carefully memorized each corridor and turn they took as they were dragged down to the basement by the same camouflaged men. Whether or not he would ever get a chance to use this knowledge, Harry tried not to consider. If he operated on the crazy presumption that they had a chance, maybe he could just find one.

It did not take long until they came to a long barren corridor, with numerous steel doors along the walls. They were shoved through the first on the right and left to stand in the middle of the room as the door was slammed shut behind them.

Dark. Cold. Harry really could not see a difference between this, what was it, storage space? And dungeons. Perhaps Shaitanov meant that there would be no rodents sneaking around, ready to bite as soon as they showed signs of fatigue.

"Dean?" Harry called into the darkness as he tried to regroup his new charges.

"Present," the voice sounded off slightly to his left and soon the hand on his arm reassured Harry of his position.

"Elizabeth?"

"I've got her," Dean's voice echoed slightly as it reverberated again the walls of the room, "She's still out."

"Alright, Rosalind?"

"She's been silenced. Ms. Cox, if you hear us, bang twice on the floor."

Twin thuds came in short succession, almost conveying the ire of the director by their intensity.

"Ok, everybody good then."

The statement was cursory, Harry knew, since their situation was anything _but_ good. Taking the chance to speak, however, without a hysterical Elizabeth to worry about, Harry tapped Dean on the shoulder, "What do you suppose they want us for?"

"Could be anything they wanted, really," Dean, true to his training, kept despair out of his tone, "They've got all the leverage they want over MagiComp with Elizabeth, over MIA with Rosalind…and us, maybe, and with everyone together over the ministry."

"Ok, thinking logically…" Harry paused a moment before continuing, "Lucius Malfoy is central to the corporate scandal back in England, since he is the party that owns the MagiComp shares that they are trying to push out. But I can't see this all as an attempt by him to just wean out a few galleons out of the company."

"Well, he wouldn't need hostages for that," Dean too sounded decidedly puzzled, "And that doesn't account for Shaitanov and that other Russian guy."

"So…I can't believe that they would want money…"Harry trailed off. It _was _possible that everyone was involved for the large sums at the end of the exchange. He just didn't want to believe it was so simple.

"Look, they are gonna question us tomorrow, ya? That'll probably be independently, tied to a chair in the middle of a freaky empty room, but we might still get some information. Let's just wait until then before any more guesses."

With that, conversation ceased in the room as the occupants tried to uneasily catch a wink of sleep by leaning against the cold concrete walls. Needless to say, success was limited and rampant thoughts reigned.

* * *

"How do we get word out?" Gorozin assumed his self-assigned role of conductor between Shaitanov and Lucius, both men too stubborn to compromise.

"We could pay off a cheap contact to go to the _Prophet_," Lucius sounded dubious.

"Maybe something a bit flashier?" Shaitanov scratched his chin, "We could take photos and email them to all major European TV stations, along with a typed statement of demands."

"We are not going to keep this quiet?"

"No way," Shaitanov snorted, "Your ministry will want to keep it quiet. That's exactly why we won't. We want everyone to know who we've got and what we'll do if they don't bend. Imagine the pressure the people of England will exert on the government to rescue their war-time hero?"

"Pressure the Minister with his daughter and the population with their hero," Lucius stared into his empty cup, "It makes sense. It can also wait until tomorrow, when we get the photos and write up some pretty, cliché lines for the reporters."

"I'll start on those lines tonight," Gorozin volunteered, "We have to keep a fast pace if we want to pull this off. No time for anyone to pause and think."

The three nodded and departed to their various rooms for the night, knowing fully well that when their opponents _did_ stop and think, it would be every man for himself.

* * *

Draco spent several fitful hours under the feather covers, before rolling out of bed at 2AM. Still in his slacks and navy shirt from the previous evening, he did not bother with a jacket or shoes as he slipped out of his room.

Wandering through the halls of the mansion, Draco tried to look for something distinguishing upon its walls, something that branded it unique to the owner, or to the location. He thought back to the multitude of Malfoy portraits, dark arts artifacts, and other such perfectly cliché objects that graced his old home and knew how they _fit_, how they defined it.

Here, he saw a beautiful house, a perfectly furnished salon, a tastefully decorated staircase flight. What he did _not_ see was a home.

There were no photos, no personal trinkets. Everything was impersonal to the point of a sales display. He found it hard to believe that someone would live here without leaving the merest trace of their presence.

Draco walked out onto the balcony of the second floor and stared out over the moonlit grounds. He could hear the tide in the distance and the salty breath in the night air was unmistakable. Every now and then, Draco would see a guard cross the grassy acres in their patrol routes, but everything seemed to be quiet, in order.

Or at least, that was until he felt a heavy hand descend upon his shoulder and force his to twist around. Stumbling backward and away from his assailant, Draco found his back pressed against the stone railing of the balcony, immediately breathing hard.

"You Malfoy?"

Draco stared at the enormous figure of the local Head of Security and resisted a gulp, "Yes."

"You back to room," the captain growled in no uncertain terms, "Now."

Draco wondered vaguely if he was expected to jump off the balcony as his route back before the captain moved aside to clear the doorway. Cautiously, Draco walked past him and rushed back up the stairs to his room, careful not to slam the door.

Locking the door behind him, Draco mentally berated himself for reacting like a chastised schoolboy, caught misbehaving. On the other hand, he hardly wanted to get on bad terms with the bear-sized man.

* * *

Morning came slowly for Harry as time could not be told in the dark, windowless room and his watch had been confiscated. He slumped against the concrete wall and floor, pretending to nap (although there was no one around to see and be fooled by the pretence).

Finally, after hours of meaningless mental conversation and a hundred theories on the psychology of their captors, Harry heard the footsteps of at least two guards down the hallway. Instantly alert, he poked Dean in the ribs to waken the drowsy agent.

"Time for questioning," he whispered.

The door slammed open and the occupants of the room were momentarily blinded by the light of fluorescent lamps from the hallway. Harry could feel an iron hand clamp around his upper arm, pulling him to his feet. Eyes shut against the glare, he allowed himself to be tugged out of the room.

His hands were immediately handcuffed and Harry did not get a chance to recover from his momentary blindness as he was shoved through a door right across the hallway. He was dragged to the middle of the new room and pushed down into a chair. Harry vaguely wondered if they were going to tie him to it, but apparently his captors were satisfied with his current blinded, drowsy, handcuffed state well enough.

"Good morning, Mr. Potter."

Harry suppressed a groan: his most hated part of any mission.

* * *

A/N: Finally. I realize that an update was long, long overdue, but I was a bit too involved with my other story. Anyway, **please REVIEW!** Thanks a million :)

-NS


	15. Chapter 14

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St. Petersburg Nights

By Natasha Shaitanova

Chapter 14: Interrogation

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**Disclaimer**: I don't own _Harry Potter_. I _do_ own this plot. :)

Quick A/N: sorry for the long wait, I may have sort of forgotten to update…

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"Name?"

"Harry James Potter, as you well know."

Harry kept his eyes shut, occasionally blinking, as his eyes tried to adjust to the glaring halogen lamps. His wrists were already raw from where the steel handcuffs rubbed against the soft skin and his head was pounding from the sleepless night. All in all, Harry was in no condition to stomach an interrogation, as his captors well knew.

"Agent number?"

"F-987316," Harry replied wearily. They knew his name, what could the number hurt?

"Agent number?"

"F-987316."

"Agent number?"

"F-987…" Harry replied monotonously, his voice automat on. His captors were using the oldest tricks in the book—drag the captive out while drowsy, blind him, bombard him with the same question until he is answering on automat, and finally throw in the question you want answered—the point when the victim almost cannot control what is coming out of his mouth.

"Agent number?"

"F-987316."

"Agent number?"

"I'll have the cauldron cake, thanks," Harry blurted as the thoughts swam through his subconscious and out on his tongue, bypassing any control centers. He was just glad nothing potentially dangerous slipped out.

"Agent number?"

"F-987316," for the thirtieth time.

"Patrol unit?"

"Ff….I don't know," Harry struggled to stop himself from blurting out the information, jaws working against the automatic words.

"Agent number?"

It went on. Finally, when Harry did not think he could stand the monotonous questioning anymore without blurting out the information, his captors dragged his out of the chair. Someone threw a black bag over his head and pushed him back-first into a cold wall.

"Hands stretched out shoulder height, now," Harry could hear his captor cock his gin and quickly complied, "Press up against wall."

It took less than a minute before Harry could feel the tell-tale sagging weight dragging at his arms. The cold from the freezing wall was seeping into his back and arm muscles, tiring him out further. He felt his left arm drop an inch.

A hard punch slammed into Harry's cheek, snapping his head hard against the wall.

"Stand still, no move," the captor yelled at him, jamming the barrel of his gun into Harry's side.

The agent grunted but lifted the arm, steeling himself for a long, painful wait. Stress positions could seem gentle at first, but try fifteen hours of standing with outstretched arms and the madness truly began to set in. Harry could only hope Dean could hold his own for the duration of the torture.

* * *

Dean had not been blinded upon being dragged out of the room, but instead immediately blindfolded by the same sort of black bag the captors had used on Harry. He was shoved roughly onto the cold floor of a separate interrogation room and told to sit cross-legged.

Dean listened carefully for his captors' locations, but it seemed he was alone in the room. He tried to adjust his position and moaned lightly as the manacles tore at his skin. His groans turned into a sharp yelp, however, as a hard boot slammed from behind into the small of his back.

"No move, no talk."

'Well, we know where one is,' Dean thought sullenly as a squeal of metal indicated the opening of a door.

A heavy thump against the floor warned Dean of another captive in the room, but a high-pitched shriek saved him from trying to guess the identity of the victim.

"You were Ms. Montgomery's bodyguard, Mr. Thomas. I trust you know her well," A smooth voice spoke from the far corner of the room and Dean could not help but turn his head toward the sound. He was rewarded by another sharp kick to the tailbone.

The voice continued, "I trust you also know what is going to happen to her if, or when, you don't talk."

Dean's heart clenched. He knew well the risks of the situation—if he did not speak, his captors were likely to kill him. If he did speak, then the MIA would kill him later. He had only hoped he would not be faced with _this_.

"She is going to be hurt, Mr. Thomas," the voice spoke without any emotional affectation, with only the barest hint of an accent, "Very, very hurt."

The sharp slap of skin against skin resounded in the small chamber and Elizabeth cried out. She sounded so close, Dean felt the urge to reach out to ascertain she was there, but the slight jerk of his hand had alerted his tormentor. His back ached.

"We need Ms. Montgomery alive for the negations, you understand. But there are many ways to break her without the relief of death."

Dean tried to block out the words, but the sobbing beside him intensified, refusing to leave him alone in his stupor. The cries were interrupted frequently by yelps and pleas, but Dean knew that he could hold out. At least, until came the continuous, uninterrupted streams of shrieking terror—he could only pray his captors would not resort to that.

"You are hurting her, Mr. Thomas," the smooth voice returned, "You are making her scream. Do you enjoy it?"

Dean grit his teeth, furious at his helplessness.

"You can make it stop, Mr. Thomas."

Don't I know it, Dean thought as a scream punctuated the words.

"There's no one here but us, professionals, Mr. Thomas. Professionals and an innocent victim," the voice did not change, disturbingly void of human emotion, "No one squeamish about what can be done to make you talk."

Dean took a deep breath, but remained motionless and silent. No Malfoy, no Gorozin, no Mishkin. None of those pompous bureaucrats who may have interrupted the process before it went too far. No. Just cold professionals.

'My men have not been off duty in months, Mr. Thomas. You understand they are feeling a bit….tense."

Oh God no, Dean bit his lip hard to prevent himself from shouting at the bodiless voice. Not this. She did not deserve this. No one deserved this.

"Ms. Montgomery is very pretty."

Dean moaned, welcoming the pain as the heavy boot crashed against his bruised back, breaking open the skin.

"Dean, please…" Elizabeth's breathy, tear-stricken voice pleaded what seemed like inches from his ear, "Don't let them, please Dean, don't…"

Dean had hoped that perhaps another bodyguard or a maid had been playing the girl's role, but Elizabeth's voice was unmistakable. He had heard it too often filled with careless laughter to forget.

"Begin," the disembodied voice commanded in the same smooth tone, "We can do this as much as necessary, Mr. Thomas."

* * *

Harry did not know how long he had been standing, but his arms had long ago gone numb. His nerves and muscles screamed and groaned, but Harry ignored the pain, preferring instead to retreat inside his mind.

The technique had been taught to him well in Agent School, but proved much more difficult in practice. He did not know how long it took (he gave up counting after the first ten minutes), but his mind had slowly begun to disengage itself from the bodily discomfort.

Harry was just chancing to commend himself on the success when a bucket of ice-cold water was dumped over his body and another smack into his chest. Spluttering, he jerked when the black bag was yanked off his head and the lights blinded him again.

The same goon that had guarded him with the automatic punched him yet again in the face and then dragged him to the center of the room. Harry thought he heard a whispered spell before the clothes suddenly vanished from his body and the goon kicked him in the back of the knees, effectively causing Harry to collapse on the cement floor.

He lay motionless, eyes again tightly closed, as he listened to the goons shuffling around. Finally, when he thought his limbs and ahem…privately were going to develop hypothermia, he was yanked into a standing position. A rope went around the chain of his handcuffs and Harry could feel himself being lifted off his feet into the air.

His arms burned as the metal scraped against his bleeding wrists. Harry groaned and received another punch across the face, but the hit did not bother him much. His toes were barely touching the floor, his body was naked and still dripping cold water, and even worse, he could now feel the blood from his hands trickling down his shoulders.

Harry could only feel thankful as he opened his eyes and saw that the cement room was empty. His captors had left.

* * *

The door slammed open suddenly and loud voices started quarreling in Russian.

Dean did not dare breathe a sigh of relief, but the real screaming had not yet started. He could only hope the interruption was in their favor.

Although he could not see what was happening, Dean heard Elizabeth yelling, "Where are you taking me? Let me go!"

Dean tried to calm himself. It seemed she was out of the danger zone.

"It seems we won't be fortunate enough to witness the show, Mr. Thomas," the smooth voice spoke when the room quieted, "The captain and his closest men wanted her all for themselves."

Even as his heart was breaking, Dean stayed silent.

* * *

"Is she alright?" Gorozin, though the shorter of the two, glared superiorly at the security captain.

"She was slapped around a bit, but otherwise intact."

"I trust you did not bypass the set limits?"

"Serega was about to."

Gorozin scowled, "Hear that Lucius?"

The man in questioned smiled thinly, "Send the imbecile up. I'll deal with it."

The Head of Security walked briskly out of the room, leaving a terrified Elizabeth standing awkwardly in front of Lucius and Gorozin.

The latter snapped his fingers. "Tiffy! Make Ms. Montgomery presentable."

Elizabeth shrunk away from the elf, but the creature quickly waved its long fingered hands at her and disappeared in a puff of smoke. She grudgingly admitted that the strict, striped black suit made her feel at least marginally more secure.

"Ms. Montgomery," Gorozin began, speaking in genial tones, "I think it imperative that we establish exactly what the situation is and clarify to you what is going to happen from this point on."

Elizabeth took the offered seat around a coffee table and nodded slightly.

"Those men will not harm you," Gorozin paused, taking in Elizabeth's bruised face, "Well, not anymore than they have. We can have those bruises fixed with a simple charm."

"What do you want from me?" Elizabeth chanced a glace at Lucius' sharp steel eyes and quickly turned back to Gorozin.

"Nothing but look pretty on camera footage," Gorozin smiled, "We are going to bully your father around a bit and we might have you do a little act of asking him to acquiesce on footage, but that's all you need to worry about."

At that point, the door opened again and the Head of Security glanced in, Elizabeth's torturer behind him. The girl sucked in her breath and leaned further back in her seat.

Lucius rolled his eyes at the effect, "Step forward."

The captain shoved 'Serega' forward. The man walked firmly toward the trio around the coffee table, causing Elizabeth to tense in her seat. She prepared to bolt (however ineffectual that was bound to prove).

Serega grinned crookedly at Elizabeth but that was as far as he got.

"Avada Kedavra."

Lucius flicked his wand almost lazily, turning away as he heard the body thud onto the ground. Gorozin stared.

"That was not what I had in mind…"

Lucius only shrugged, "You forgot whom you were working with."

* * *

A/N: Ok, breathe easy everyone. Elizabeth is _not_ going to get raped. However, all of the "torture methods" used in this chapter were taken from a military book, not contrived. I just really did not want to do that to her. This is _light_ action/adventure. No worries.

**Please REVIEW! Reviews are greatly, greatly appreciated. **And I promise a quicker update.

-NS


	16. Chapter 15

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By Natasha Shaitanova

**Chapter 15**: Unstable

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**Disclaimer**: I don't own Harry Potter & assoc. I own my plot and characters.

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Draco awoke late, preferring to lounge in the downy bed after his midnight wanderings. Or rather…after the weeks of unrelenting pursuit. He sighed and turned his face into the pillow, murmuring contentedly. After over seven years on the run, the familiarity of luxurious comforts struck the fine, quivering chords of satisfied nostalgia with unerring accuracy.

Sometime in mid-morning, a house elf popped into Draco's chambers with a breakfast tray. Still slumbering and loathe to rise, Draco was nevertheless drawn out from under the feather coverlet by the heavenly aromas wafting across the room.

A few lazy flicks of the wand straightened out the bedhead hair, but Draco resisted a pepper-up charm in favor of a cup of pure black coffee. He was about half-way through the cup when a heavy knock resounded in the room.

Draco opened the door unthinking of his apparel, still dressed only in pajama bottoms and lacking a top. His vision still swam sleepily and he blinked slowly at the visitor.

"Can I help you?"

Shaitanov cocked his head and pursed his lips at the young man, unsure of how to proceed, "Good morning, Mr. Malfoy…"

"Good morning…" Draco frowned as he struggled to place a name on the man.

"My name is Vlad Shaitanov, if you would recall. I am the owner of manor and co-director of the operation," the statement sounded ridiculously…civilized to Draco, considering the true nature of the 'operation', "I was hoping we could have a little chat."

"By all means," Draco stepped to the side of the door, letting in the unexpected visitor. He tugged slightly at the strings of his pajamas, "Would you mind waiting a second so I can…uh…."

"Proper attire would be most desirable, Mr. Malfoy," Shaitanov waved his hand impatiently and seated himself at the table with the breakfast tray.

"Right…" Draco grabbed a few articles of clothing from his closet, hoping whatever his hosts had provided would fit. Locking himself in the bathroom, he stared hard at the mirror, thinking.

Shaitanov already told him that he was one of the persons in charge of the scam. He knew Gorozin was not the other—he was the so-called "middle man". That only left Lucius as the second.

Draco splashed water onto his face and dragged his fingers through his hair. It did not make sense that Lucius would send the other man to talk to him, obviously about the mission. Quite the opposite, his father would have wanted to ensure that Draco received _his_ version of events first, manipulating Draco to his opinion.

This visit can only mean one thing then, Draco thought as he pulled on slacks and a light blue shirt, Shaitanov and Lucius do not see eye to eye and this guy wants something from me. Draco smirked—if ever he had wished for the perfect chance to betray his father, this was probably going to be it.

Shaitanov looked up as Draco walked over to the table and sat across from him. He took a moment to study the young man over his tea.

Dark circles painted a bluish tinge around Draco's eyes, which themselves were slightly bloodshot. Blond hair hung limply, tucked behind the pointed ears. The mouth was set in a tight line, uncompromising but neutral. His hands were steady.

When Shaitanov first sent Gorozin to dig up research on the "Malfoy brat", he saw a harmless thief, still moral and weak. He did not for a second think that their transporter would be capable of pulling through in the last leg of the operation, despite what Lucius said.

And yet, looking at the sharp gaze of the battle-weathered youth before him, Shaitanov was reformulating his ideas. Perhaps this Malfoy could be more useful alive after all.

"Tell me, Mr. Malfoy," Shaitanov began calmly, "How much do you know about this operation?"

"I know nothing," Draco stated wryly, "My job was to capture and transport the girl, collect my money, keep my mouth shut. I did not expect to see my father in the picture, my supposedly long-dead father."

"So, by your words, Draco…" Shaitanov hesitated to receive the consenting nod at the use of a first name, "You have no idea as to _why_ your father wanted Ms. Montgomery taken hostage or as to why Agent Potter was so hot on your tail?"

No and I'm sure you'll tell me, Draco thought. "No, I do not. And I am rather curious."

Shaitanov sipped his tea, "Have you been reading the news, Draco?"

"No, I've been climbing rock falls and blowing up police cars, Mr. Shaitanov."

"Indeed…" Shaitanov abandoned his cup and folded his hands, "Are you at all familiar with MagiComp, Draco?"

"A company that began developing prior to the war, but not very influential back then…"

"They are very influential now," Shaitanov smiled grimly, "Especially since the CEO happens to be Mr. Montgomery, your Minister of Magic."

"Not mine, that is for sure," Draco huffed, "England practically disowned me."

"True as that may be, let me explain the legal situation of MagiComp at this point," Shaitanov struggled to rein in his WallStreet dialogue for the benefit of his companion, "Montgomery rose swiftly in the post-war reconstruction, both politically and economically. MagiComp is now seen as the pillar upon which English wizarding economics stand, and a good portion of muggle as well. However, his ascent was not altogether legal."

"It never is," Draco quipped.

"Yes. Montgomery got lucky when his largest investor disappeared off the face of the Earth, leaving the money with the company," Shaitanov raised his eyebrows, "Three guesses who and the first two don't count."

"What, my father?"

"Obviously."

Draco snorted slightly, "Right. And Lucius would want to invest in a muggle technology immersion company because…what? He developed schizophrenia?"

"Your humor is unfitting Draco," Shaitanov replied patiently, "Surely you realize that the financial world cares little for ideologies of the moral and righteous."

"No surprise there."

"Regardless. The issue now is that Montgomery is being sued heavily to hand over the money owed to the heir. That means you. The technicality says this—while both you and your father are wanted by the MIA, MagiComp is still legally obligated to pay up, whether you are in prison or not…"

"Hold on," Draco raised a hand to signal a pause, "You failed to mention who exactly is suing Montgomery…"

"That would be me," Shaitanov raised his teacup again in a pseudo-toast, "Five years ago, MagiComp muscled me out of the business. Forced me to sell my company through both fair play and underhanded tactics. Montgomery got blackmail material on me so…"

"And you didn't file a complaint? Last I checked, blackmail wasn't legal…"

"Did seven years playing Danny Ocean addle your brains, boy?" Shaitanov scowled, "Sure, I'll go to the FSB and complain that some English ponce was blackmailing me. That'll go over well—'he got information that I embezzled billions and knocked off a few competitors'…And I am expected to walk out of that office a free man? Ha!"

Draco had the decency to look down during the monologue, cursing his own oversight.

"Moving on," Shaitanov growled, "So, a few months ago I got the dirt on Montgomery—namely because Lucius showed up on my door step seeking refuge. Well, old business buddies and such, we had tea, talked over that SOB's smug visage in the morning paper…" Shaitanov nodded at the newspaper laid out next to the breakfast, Montgomery's face front and center.

"And?" Draco was growing impatient.

"And, and? It should be obvious by now. I wanted revenge badly. Here the opportunity dropped into my lap—with Lucius' information, I could sue Montgomery's ass off, ruin his business, and get a good deal of profit out of legal reparations. But then things went a bit wrong."

Draco nodded, "The reparations go to the original investor. Lucius can't reveal himself as alive, so you needed me to write the signature. The money would go to the Malfoy family vault, which Lucius still technically controls through agreement with the goblins. In the end, you and I are both tools that get bypassed and Montgomery comes out with minor damage."

"Finally your brain is working," Shaitanov bit into a croissant, "So, my original idea was this—get you to kidnap the Montgomery girl: that gives us leverage over Montgomery. He lets Lucius sign the document, but keeps the matter hush, hush, as though _you_ singed it. You get knocked, since using you against Lucius probably wouldn't work. The man is damaged."

"More so than you can imagine," Draco grumbled, unsurprised at his intended fate.

"As you can probably guess, I have no designs on finishing you, since I am telling you this," Shaitanov said lightly, "Your father wanted you offed, of course, so that you don't get a hold of the money."

"Of course."

"But when it comes down to it, I would rather negotiate a deal with you than Lucius. The old DE is too unpredictable, too volatile. Whatever happened to him on the run, it wasn't good. He is not safe for business."

"But I am still sane."

"That's right. I want to deal with a level head. Your father is no longer an option."

Draco finished his coffee in a deep gulp, "So what do you want?"

"I want full exposure," at Draco's inquiring look, Shaitanov elaborated, "I want Montgomery publicly humiliated. He must not win his next election. Next, I want MagiComp. You know the trick—the largest shareholders own the company. Due to malpractice, Montgomery is forced to give up his shares as legal reparations. I receive those shares, as well as the Malfoy shares. You get the direct monetary payoff into the Malfoy account and go back underground, away from the MIA hawks."

"So I get a few quick bucks and you get the company?" Draco raised both eyebrows, "Doesn't sound like an even deal. And I expect Lucius gets offed in the process?"

"Lucius is the kink in the plan, at this point. That and I doubt you have much sympathy for the insane man that abandoned you," Shaitanov gazed around the room, "You can't take the company, Draco, because you are a man on the run. But I don't see how you can refuse a couple of billions of galleons."

"I see your point," Draco inclined his head, expression unchanging, "But what roles do we play from this point on?"

"You do know whom we hold in the basement, don't you Draco?"

"Thomas, Potter, and Ms. Montgomery."

"Hefty prisoners, without a doubt," Shaitanov looked smug, "And do you know which person we need if we want full exposure of Montgomery's dirty deals to the public?"

Draco's face dropped, "A _very_ good reporter. A very good reporter that is close to one of the prisoners. You are talking about Granger."

"Indeed," Shaitanov stood, "My head of Security will get you the details on your new mission, Draco. And now that you know who will benefit from your efforts, I trust the incentive not to _screw up_ is high."

Draco stood as well, "Understood. And what about Lucius?"

"What about him? He doesn't know the noose has been moved from one Malfoy to the other. Let's keep it that way."

* * *

The Ministry's TDC, Temporary Detention Center, was usually full to the brim. The crime levels had remained high in the years after the chaos of war and refused to drop. There was never a shortage of small-time criminals serving time in the federal prisons.

In a large, multi-prisoner cell, Ronald Weasley sat huddled in a corner, away from the chatting prisoners. He traced the grime on the grey floor with calloused fingers, mumbling to himself under his breath.

"They don't understand," he hissed, quietly, "Think they've got it all figured out, with their white coats and clip boards…Think they know what it's like, on the field…"

Ron pulled up his knees and rested his chin on them.

"The lackeys never know, but the man knows. Too much knowledge, too much power…he doesn't like it. They never like it. Have to keep it quiet, have to keep it down. Give us pills, give us drugs, they say, cure us…"

His eyes darted at the other prisoners, ignoring their bragging voices.

"White walls, white cot, white coat, white pills….little pills, white, blue, red, especially red…"

His fingers traced designs frantically.

"Let out when don't remember…let out when can't talk, when no one listens…now no one listens…the pills stop the pain, they say…they don't say the pills stop everything else…"

A guard walked past the cell, banging a rubber club against the bars. The prisoners quieted.

"No pills, don't take the pills…not enough little pills, not enough to go around…not enough white coats, not enough cots, not enough white rooms…never enough…don't complain, no one listens…"

The group of prisoners one by one glanced over at the mumbling inmate.

"No one listens…"

* * *

A/N: creepy? I hope so. I also hope you people are not going to get uncomfortable if this gets political—it's been from the very beginning really. Anyhow, more action in the next chapter, most likely. **Please REVIEW!!** And if you get **confused**, be sure to ask for clarification in the reviews. I know this is getting just a touch convoluted with the double crossing, the many characters, and the names. I'll do my best to straighten things out.

Thanks for reading,

NS


	17. Chapter 16

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By Natasha Shaitanova

**Chapter 16**: To Business

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**Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter. I own my plot and my characters.

* * *

"Aplausi…Aplausi per fibra, fibra, fibra, fibra, fibra—hey!" Blaise yelped as the headphones were yanked off his ears, "I'll have you know that I love that song!"

"And I'll have you know that I hate your singing…in any and every language."

"Shut up, not any worse than yours," Blaise grumbled and pulled himself off the outside lounge, "What's happenin'?"

"We've got a job."

"A job? Now? I thought we were getting our pay and getting lost…"

"Yes, now. We gotta go. Let's go!" Draco grabbed Blaise's arm and dragged him back toward the mansion, "I'll debrief you on the way."

"Are we getting paid for this?"

"Oh yeah."

* * *

Harry slumped against the concrete wall, head lolling to the side. His captors had finally given him his clothes back and released him from the stress position, but only after his muscles had begun spasming from the exertion.

In the unnatural fluorescent lighting of the basement, Harry had long lost track of time. They could have been there for a matter of hours, or well over a day, and there was no way to tell.

Harry chanced a quick glance around the room. They had brought Dean back to their original cell just minutes prior and the man was curled in a similar posture a few feet away from him. Elizabeth still had not been returned.

The door banged open and two burly men stood in the doorway. One of them pointed at Rosalind, who was sitting primly in one of the corners.

"You, up. You go with us."

Rosalind stood slowly and walked toward the exit. As she walked, she gave a barely discernable nod to the agents.

As she neared the guards, one of them made to grab for her elbow. Rosalind allowed the contact and stepped forward, jamming the tip of her high, red heel into the toe of her captor. The reaction was instantaneous.

As the first guard arched in a spasm and fell back against the wall, Dean and Harry rose quickly from their huddled positions and moved toward the second guard. Harry stepped swiftly to the side and grabbed for the automatic, pointing the weapon at the ceiling and flicking on the safety to prevent it from firing an alert.

Dean lunged toward the other side of the guard, ducking under the wild swing of the man's arm and ramming his elbow into the guard's temple. Harry followed up the strike with a sharp thrust of the automatic up against the guard's jaw.

With the two guards knocked out and relieved of weapons, Harry turned to Rosalind.

"Okay, joking aside, how did you pull that off with a _shoe?_"

The director crossed her arms and moved toward the door of the cell, "Slamming the heel down onto a firm surface releases a sharp metal spike, which conducts an electrical impulse from the battery chip in the top of the heel. The electricity carries along with it a strong shocking hex, followed by a Stupefy."

At the dumb-founded expressions of the agents, Rosalind shrugged, "Don't forget that MagiComp is a major supplier of MIA. Another reason I don't want to lose their funding."

"Okay," Dean cocked his Kalashnikov and stepped into the hallway, checking both ways, "We'll discuss politics later. Right now, we need a way out."

* * *

Gorozin gulped down another espresso and valiantly tried to keep his attention focused on the matter at hand, "So what did you tell the Malfoy brat?"

"He gets the money, I get MagiComp," Shaitanov spoke lightly as he admired his lantern-lit grounds. The pair had chosen a secluded grove in the middle of the sprawling gardens, away from the inquisitive Security Team and the Englishmen.

Gorozin snorted, "And, what, the milksucker bought it?"

"He seemed to."

"That's bullshit," Gorozin shook his head, "Even assuming he knows nil about business, no one could be that stupid."

"You're saying he lied?"

"Look," Gorozin leaned forward, "For you to get the company, you have to get Malfoy's shares. Now, while Malfoy can technically receive the monetary reparations from MagiComp, he can't actually use them. As soon as the Malfoys go into the open of business transactions, they'll get the money but their accounts will be frozen. That includes shares."

"Gorozin, I'm not a newbie—"

"No, listen," Gorozin waved his hands impatiently, "Malfoy knows well enough that as a criminal, he can't control the Malfoy vaults. He hasn't tried to access them in seven years, and neither has his father. There is no way in hell that he would agree to sign the shares over to you—it _cannot_ be done. He can't move his money, he can't move his shares. All that deal looks like then is that he gets the money and you're left with nothing because his hands are tied."

"Ok, listen, _tovarish_—"

"No, _you_ listen. When he hears that deal and sees those implications, he has to realize that there is no way in hell that you don't see them as well. Therefore, since he knows that _you_ know that you wouldn't profit, he knows that the deal is a faux."

Shaitanov rolled his eyes, "Look, the deal is still technically solvent. Shares can be moved through loopholes. If he signs an agreement to transfer them over in the event that he cannot actually control them—such as when he is convicted a criminal and is blocked from the account—then I can still legally come in control of the shares. Montgomery can transfer the shares legally. It works out."

"And me?"

"He doesn't know about you," Shaitanov proceeded to elaborate at Gorozin's raised eyebrows, "He doesn't actually know where you come in into the scam. All he thinks now is that I am double-crossing Lucius and choosing to replace the old man with his son. As for you, he thinks you are some sort of a middle-man."

Gorozin snorted again, "Middle-man, my ass. You underestimate him."

"Alexei, just look at the kid. What does he know about our world?"

Gorozin shook his finger at his companion, "Overconfidence is a bitch, _tovarish_."

* * *

In the smaller dining room, Lucius and Elizabeth took their seats across from each other at the circular table, preferring to focus their attention on the food rather than their respective company. They sat in silence as the house elves served them, laying out the various dishes with haste under Lucius' glare.

After twenty or so minutes of silence interrupted only by precisely measured chewing, Lucius spoke.

"Tell me, Ms. Elizabeth, who do you think is most directly involved in this scandal?"

Elizabeth paused with the fork half-way to her mouth, before lowering the silverware, "Most directly? My father and yourself, Mr. Malfoy."

"Correct," Lucius lifted his wine glass as though in a toast, "Would you not say then that it would be best to minimize the fallout if the negotiations were confined to the pertinent parties?"

Elizabeth tried to keep up her guard, but the man's insinuations were lost on her, "I suppose that would be best…"

Lucius curved his lips, "Indeed. Leave out the MIA, the Russians, even my son. No one interferes, and so no one gets hurt, yes?"

"The latter would be most desirable," Elizabeth responded primly, searching for the man's purpose among the careful phrasings.

"Perhaps we can make such an arrangement possible," Lucius nodded across the table, "Should you wish to make it possible, Ms. Elizabeth."

"I hardly see how any influence upon the proceedings resides with me."

"A great deal resides with you, Ms. Elizabeth," Lucius smirked slightly, "Perhaps it would be best if I present a possible solution to you."

Elizabeth nodded as she sipped from her glass, listening attentively.

"My desires are simple," Lucius spoke leisurely, with clear and cool deliberation, "I wish to retire comfortably away from the hubbub of wizarding England. For that, I need money in a vault separate from the Malfoy account. Since the Malfoy account has been blocked upon our family being declared war criminals, that money is unavailable. However, should your father proceed with paying off the investment money he owes me, that money can be transferred to a new, clean account, unknown to the Ministry of Magic."

Elizabeth nodded slowly, beginning to catch the drift of the conversation. Lucius continued.

""With the money in the new account, I disappear. I want nothing more than that. Your father keeps his company, you go home safely, the rest of the crooks in this house get bypassed completely."

Elizabeth frowned, "What does my father losing his company have to do with anything? How is that even possible?"

"Ah, I see," Lucius spoke with ease, having anticipated the question his bait aroused, "Ms. Elizabeth, you do not know the reason Shaitanov is involved, do you?"

Elizabeth shook her head slightly, steadily growing more confused.

"Shaitanov had, at one point, gotten the short end of a business deal with your father. He wants revenge. Who else do you think is suing your father?" Lucius paused for effect, "Shaitanov has the information to sue your father through me. However, he is using the information not to restore the money to the investors, but to take control of the company himself. That leaves the rest of us hanging should he succeed."

Elizabeth nodded, "So you want to take the money that my father legally owes you. My father walks clean and with an improved record by paying the reparations and Shaitanov's lawyers are at a standstill because the legal deal would be met and there would be no need for underhanded machinations."

"Well, I suppose transferring the money to a secret account could be considered underhanded, but certainly no more than signing over the money _and _the shares to the company," Lucius carefully kept his excitement at the approaching victory in check, "This way, the old issue is resolved and your father remains an upstanding man, ready for the next election."

Elizabeth remained frowning, "But where do I come in here?"

Lucius fought not to roll his eyes, "Ms. Elizabeth, it would be extremely difficult for me to convince your father to enter secretive negotiations with me without the proper…persuasion."

"So, you are asking me to convince my father to accept your terms?"

"And in return, I get you out of reach of Shaitanov and Gorozin and back to England," Lucius sipped his wine, "As well as the added bonus of your family keeping the corporation, the money, and the political status."

Elizabeth swirled her tea and mulled over the proposal. The lack of a conspicuous downside was glaring. She was tempted to ask what the catch was, but the futility and naivety of the question kept her mouth shut.

"What do you say, Ms. Elizabeth?" Lucius almost smiled, "Should I escort you back to the basement? Or…should I call the helicopter?"

'I don't have a choice,' Elizabeth thought desperately, 'If I stay, Shaitanov ruins my father's business and reputation. If I go…who knows what Malfoy has up his sleeve. And yet, at least I'm getting out of this house.'

"You have a deal, Mr. Malfoy."

* * *

A/N: WoW! Quick update :) Well, everything seems to coming together, doesn't it? It's not quite over yet…I am not giving away any clues. This is still getting convoluted, but that's the fun of it, isn't it? Anyhow…

**Please REVIEW! I will love you forever…okay, if you leave a good review I'll love you for a bit. So don't be lazy! Do good, feel good phenomenon, people!**

**NS**


	18. Chapter 17

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**St. Petersburg Nights**

By Natasha Shaitanova

**Chapter 17:** BBC Likes Gossip

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**Disclaimer:** I don't own the _Harry Potter_ series. I own my characters and plot. Any similarities to other movies/books/etc. are unintentional (I realize action/adventure stories can overlap and mimic a great deal). Uh, in the previous chapter I mentioned the song Aplausi per fibra, by Fabri Fibra. Obviously, I don't own the song or the lyrics.

* * *

"No, no! What do you think you're doing? Stop that! Point it _that_ way, Peter! Are you trying to light my face or my boots? _Honestly_…"

Hermione waved her microphone impatiently at her fellow reporters, before regaining her posture.

"Ready to go in three, Ms. Granger," Peter held up three fingers as he spoke and counted down clearly before flicking on his camera.

"Hello, this is Hermione Granger, BBC News, reporting from Odessa, Ukraine. In the past couple of days, unidentified terrorist activity has plagued this coast of the Black Sea. A full report on the BBC news website covers the activity stemming from the initial report at the Montgomery summer home, to the explosions at the Yalta airport, the kidnapping on the train from Gelindzhik to Odessa, and finally the situation we are currently covering."

Hermione paused to turn and wave her arm at the carnage behind her for the camera—police officers and on-site detectives swarmed over several charred police cars. Junior members could be seen carrying plastic bags containing indistinguishable parcels to and fro. The camera shot did not fail to catch in clear sight two police officers carrying what appeared to be a half-full body bag on a stretcher.

"Although detectives are not as of yet fully sure as to what transpired here, it appears that a massive explosion tore apart four police cars, killing all occupants. Detectives speculate the use of three hand grenades, although they state that there must have been more to cause a blast of this magnitude. The magical branch speculates on the potential use of an augmentation charm, similar to the pattern of explosions in Yalta. No formal link has yet been drawn between the two events."

Peter clicked off the camera and gave Hermione an "O.K." sign with his hand, signaling that she was off-air. Immediately, a young female reporter rushed forth.

"Ms. Granger!" she spoke rapidly, slightly out of breath, "There is a man here demanding to see you! We can't drive him away; I don't know what to do!"

Hermione simply walked past the younger reporter, tossing a light-hearted "I'll deal with it" over her shoulder.

She walked over to the main trailer, which the visitor apparently had occupied. Several techies stood outside of the door, glancing warily at each other.

Hermione frowned, "Who is it here that is important enough to cause discontent in _our_ company?"

One cameraman seemed brave enough to speak up, "We are not sure who he is, Miss, but he seems to know about the Malfoy story."

"_Everyone_ knows about the Malfoy story by now, I made sure of that," Hermione rolled her eyes and entered the trailer.

* * *

The guard fell to the ground in a heap, his descend slowed somewhat by two pairs of strong arms. The moment he was out, his ammunition, knife, pocket pistol, and wallet were confiscated with supreme efficiency.

"That makes four," Dean whispered, counting the initial two guards as well as another they had met in the previous corridor.

Harry checked around the corner swiftly, before turning back, "How many did you count in the team that grabbed us from the car?"

"I got nine or ten," Dean shook his head, "But best count on anywhere from fifteen to thirty total."

Rosalind hefted the newly-retrieved pistol in her hand, before checking the chamber, "We can pick them off one by one or in small groups, but we can't take an organized ambush. Best get out quickly and call for back up."

Dean and Harry exchanged glances before the latter spoke, "We can't leave the house without Malfoy or Elizabeth."

"Elizabeth, yes. But why on earth do we need Malfoy?" Dean queried.

"Because my mission was to retrieve him. Isn't that right, Rosalind?"

"Indeed," Rosalind frowned, "Now that my authority as Director has been reasserted, here is what is going to happen. We are not going to worry about Elizabeth—she is a bargaining piece which will not be harmed in any case. However, we do need Malfoy junior if this mission is to go according to plan."

Dean only snorted, "No offense, Ms. Cox, but this mission is no where near according to plan. And I have yet to understand how you can even consider leaving a young girl with these men!"

"Ms. Montgomery is no longer your charge as you are no longer her bodyguard. As of this moment, I am reassigning you to the mission of retrieving Draco Malfoy.," Rosalind stared harm at her employees, "There will be no argument. Malfoy must be captured in the interests of MIA. Ms. Montgomery is not our issue at this point."

Harry stared uneasily between the two, before the sound of approaching footsteps caused the trio to drop the conversation and press their backs against the wall of the corridor.

Harry lifted the butt of his automatic, ready to club whoever was rounding the corner when the slight exhalation of a bullet shooting through a silencer caused him to freeze.

The guard fell heavily onto the concrete floor even before Rosalind had time to lower the smoking gun. The Director proceeded to carefully step over the spreading pool of blood around the head of the fallen man and dug through his pocket to find a pistol identical to the one she had used. She wasted no time in extracting the extra ammunition and reloading her gun.

Noticing the grim look on Harry's face, Cox spoke, "Not everyone's line of work is quite as…clean as yours, Mr. Potter. I can only hope that the years in the "Missing Persons" division have not caused you to forget the nature of our more active sectors."

Harry shook his head and the three continued down the new corridor, wordlessly. There was nothing to be said.

* * *

In a camouflaged, concrete bunker in the midst of the Shaitanov grounds, activity levels soared, as did the tempers of the occupants. Disguised partly as a tool shed, partly as the slope of a small hill, the bunker housed the information sector of the security team, among various other supplies.

Vadim Arbatiev, the Head of Security, stood with his muscular arms akimbo as he glared at his scurrying subordinates. Every now and then he barked orders to the various techies.

He was in the middle of chewing out a low-ranking computer programmer when the door to the "TV" room opened and a harried-looking guard, dressed in full black uniform, ran out.

"Sir!" he panted, "There seems to be a problem with the cameras! None of the transmissions from the lower half of the mansion are coming through!"

Arbatiev deepened his scowl, "What do you mean not coming through? When did you last see the prisoners then?"

"The prisoners had been put in their original cell, sir," the guard barely resisted fiddling with his hands and forced himself to keep the _a la guard_ posture in front of his superior, "However, over the past ten minutes, monitors have been shutting down systematically, starting at the lowest levels of the basement. As we speak, the shutdown is moving on to the cameras in the mid and upper levels of the house."

"Do you have an explanation?"

"No sir. The equipment seems to be functioning fine here, so something must be going wrong at the other end."

Dismissing the man back to his station, Arbatiev threw open the door to the room labeled "Na Strazhe" (1).

"You, you, you, you, and you," he barked, pointing at the guards in question, "Go down to the basement and check on the prisoners. Radio back about their status and stand by for further orders."

He pointed then at a red-headed guard with a great, white laceration marring his forehead, "You're in charge. I expect a radio report in under ten minutes. Go."

* * *

"Hello, Miss Granger."

For all her witticism and impeccable speech, words left Hermione the moment she saw her visitor lounging so comfortably in the trailer's only armchair.

Finally, she exclaimed incredulously, "Blaise Zabini?"

"Glad to know time has been kind to me," Blaise grinned and stood, extending his hand toward the reporter, "I must not have changed so much."

Hermione shook the hand shortly and cautiously, "What brings you here under such _very _unusual circumstances, Mr. Zabini?"

"Well, you see, a colleague of mine is very interested in you publicizing the Malfoy chase," Blaise seemed to smile vaguely up at the ceiling, "In fact, he is watching our conversation right now, just to supervise."

"And I expect I know this colleague of yours?" Hermione knew she was fishing, but the coincidences began to total up to a far more complex picture.

"Yes, although you might not like him. He used some nasty words back in school," Blaise grinned in his most charming manner, "But he asked me to tell you that he was most impressed in how efficiently you helped set Potter back on his scent. You helped us enormously."

Hermione stiffened, "Give me one reason I should not call the police stationed just feet outside of this trailer, Zabini."

"I'll show you one," Blaise pulled a manila folder from the inside of his long overcoat and handed it to Hermione, "With your great prowess at deduction strategies, these images should speak very clearly to you."

Hermione's hand flew up to cover her mouth as she struggled not to drop the photos in the file. The pictures featured the same subject—Harry slumped against the chains that bound him to a plain chair; Harry dangling from ropes that bound his hands to the ceiling; Harry grimacing as the photographer aimed for a close-up of his bruised, swollen face.

"What do you want from me?" Hermione choked out, putting the pictures carefully back in the folder.

"A wonderful question," Blaise replied cheerfully, "First off, I will let you know that Potter is not the only MIA prisoner we have. If you don't cooperate, then we kill Potter (which is bound to prove to everyone that we mean business) and then we'll just move on to a different reporter with a different prisoner."

Blaise paused for effect before continuing, "You can choose not to believe me, of course, but do you think you can live with that shadow of a doubt that it might have been truth?"

"I get it, Zabini. But are you really willing to just kill a hero?"

"The people I work for do not deal with ideologies, Granger. They deal with business. Potter's affiliation with The War means nothing."

"What do you want?" Hermione repeated, tone grim.

"We want a little bit of assistance on your part, Granger," Blaise seemed to smirk at the idea, "As BBC's top reporter, anything you publish is bound to gain an audience. It just so happens that we have a matter that demands attention."

Hermione nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

"There is a folder on your desk which contains an accurate and precise history of Montgomery's dealings, dating back to the very creating of MagiComp. If you want to check the validity of the information, go ahead. Dig around a bit and it'll surface as true. In the meantime, we want an extended report on the front page of every website and newspaper detailing Montgomery's corrupt deals and obvious disregard for ethics."

Hermione frowned, "The information better be good. It won't hold any ground if it is not legitimate."

"Oh, don't worry about the sources. Worry about your friend there. If the report is not up in two days, you better practice writing eulogies."

* * *

From his comfortable seat in the back of a BMW, Draco snorted at the miniature computer screen in front of him, "Bloody drama queen. 'Better practice eulogies!' it seems someone never lost the Death Eater attitude."

Temporarily brushing aside his ennui, Draco focused on the mini-Blaise chattering away in the monitor.

"Here is a little incentive of the pay-off you'll get after you publish the stories we ask for."

Draco leaned forward at the tinny voice, watching closely as Blaise opened yet another folder under Granger's nose for a few moments before pulling it back shut.

Draco sniggered as Granger's eyes grew to almost comical proportions, "Are those…?"

"Authentic. Taken yesterday," Blaise's voice sounded smug even over the transmission, "Do the job and you get full access to these."

Granger seemed to be itching for another look at the third folder, but instead nodded with what appeared to painstaking effort, "Agreed, Zabini. But that means—"

"Yes."

"So then he…?"

"Absolutely."

"Well then you better…"

"I'll be sure to note your concern. Good night, Granger."

The crack of disapparition resounded loudly through the small cabin.

* * *

A/N: Muah. Don't you just love me right now? Quickie updates and action evolving…woohoo! I might take a one week vacation in the near future, so I'm gonna get some chapters in now :)

Foot note 1: "Na Strazhe" means "On Duty".

As usual **Please review!!! Do it for sexy, leather-clad gun-toting Dracos and Harrys, yes?**

**NS**


	19. Chapter 18

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By Natasha Shaitanova

**Chapter 18**: Blackout

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**Disclaimer**: I don't own _Harry Potter_, just my plot and my characters.

* * *

Kolya Sarkisov, the scarred redheaded youth Arbatiev had placed in charge of the recon team, stalked quietly down the corridor leading to the basement, his rubber shoes barely making a whisper against the concrete floor. He stopped as he came to the metal door that opened to reveal the first flight of stairs, descending into darkness.

Motioning to the closest of his team, Kolya muttered softly as he peered through the slit between the door and the wall, "Electricity has been shut down on the lower levels. Tell the others to put on their goggles."

As he turned back to the door, Kolya carefully snapped on a pair of what appeared to be large pilot goggles. Immediately, the world turned a blinding fluorescent green to his eyes. Eager to end the discomfort, he waited for the tap from one of his men to let him know the others were ready and slid through the half-opened door, into darkness.

The team filed in quickly, keeping close to the walls of the corridor and shutting the door behind them, to keep out any extra light. The night goggles adjusted immediately with the lack of direct light and gave the guards a multi-toned green panorama of the descending staircase and their fellow men. Distant shadows and angles were somewhat blurred, but at least they could see.

Kolya paused for a second to check that their current position was stable, before motioning his men forward, listening carefully as they went. They descended the stairs without incident , but stopped again upon reaching the first intersection.

Kolya glanced up at a blinking, orange pilot light in the ceiling, before risking a low whisper, "We circle through the facility, starting with the holding cells and ending in the control room."

With that, he motioned the team to round the corner to the right.

* * *

"_We circle through the facility, starting with the holding cells and ending in the control room…_"

Harry stiffened as he heard the whisper, traveling easily down the concrete corridor. A few yards in front of him, the weak orange light highlighted shadowy forms of four men rounding the corner, their backs to him. The fifth guard proceeded sideways, aiming his gun down the corridor, in Harry's direction, bringing up the rear.

In the brief moment that the rear guard passed through the orange light, Harry noted the large goggles covering his face as the man scanned the corridor. Harry flattened himself further against the wall, but realized that the visibility range of the night goggles must have fallen short of their position.

It didn't take long for Harry to take stock of the situation and make up his mind. They did not know where the control room was, but under no circumstances could they allow the recon team to report back to base that the prisoners had escaped. Likewise, they had little idea of where the exit was except for where the guards had come from, but there was little chance of finding the route out in total darkness.

Knowing that the guard team was quickly slipping away down the corridor, Harry turned swiftly and tapped Dean and Rosalind thrice on their shoulders before taking position in the middle of the corridor. The other two leaned against the opposite walls of the corridor, so as not to shoot each other accidentally.

Harry went down on one knee and brought up his automatic, turning his body sideways as he fired off a burst of bullets. Identical explosions from his sides indicated Dean and Rosalind following the example, undoubtedly in the same position to minimize the risk of being hit by return fire.

The streams of shots resounded deafeningly in the narrow corridor, their explosive sounds adding to the massive chaos of the situation. Harry could barely hear pained screams further down the corridor, but no return fire was forthcoming. Finally, reaching the end of his clip, Harry took his finger off the trigger and threw himself sideways to the right-hand wall, behind Dean. Reloading quickly, he tapped the fellow agent in front of him.

As Dean ceased fire, Rosalind immediately followed example and fell into step behind the other agents. The trio used the momentary lull to dash into the side corridor from which the enemy team had emerged. Harry shook his head from side to side as they crouched in the shadows, desperately (though in vain) trying to get rid of the ringing in his ears.

The agents and Rosalind waited until the ringing in their ears had subsided enough to hear other sounds. However, only receiving silence form the main corridor, Harry decided to move. Signaling the others to wait and be ready to provide cover fire, he moved around the corner in the direction of the ambushed guards.

Harry proceeded along the wall in a crouching position, crawling along virtually blind as he got farther away from the pilot light. After a cautious approach for a couple of yards, his leading knee came in sudden contact with something soft and heavy.

Harry crouched further to the floor as he felt around the floor, getting a general sense of the body's position. Reaching the head, he wiggled off the goggles. Putting them on by touch only was a challenge, but after a few breathtaking, struggling moments, the corridor lit up in soft, green angles.

Taking a step back from the body, Harry surveyed the carnage. The body he had stumbled upon was burdened under another, with what remained of the guard's head laying on top of the other's knees.

Another leaned against the opposite wall, head lolling to the side and leaving large, black smears against the concrete. The fourth guard lay spread-eagled and face down a few feet down the corridor, smack in the center.

Harry stepped over the bodies and proceeded further, careful not to slip on the blood-slicked floor. The fifth wasn't there.

Taking the two less-damaged goggles from the guards, Harry quickly made his way back to Rosalind and Dean. He filled them in as the two put on their night goggles,

"Four dead, one missing. We can't let him get to the control center."

Rosalind whispered back, "Harry, follow the corridor and see if you can catch up to him. Dean follow at a distance for back-up and memorize the route. I will stay here in the case he comes around from the other end and keep an eye on the exit."

The agents nodded and Harry took off at a faster jog, trying to keep the sound of his boots as quiet as possible. Immediately, he noticed the bloody footprints which showed up black against an emerald floor, leading down the corridor and around the first bend.

Harry kept close to the wall and tried not to straighten too much as he proceeded down the new route. A few moments after, he heard the tell-tale patter of quick feet ahead of him.

Hastening his pace, Harry soon saw the fluorescent green glare of another pilot light at the upcoming intersection and the shadow of a man blinking through the light as he took another left turn.

Despite his impulse to rush in, Harry paused at the intersection and lay flat on his stomach before cautiously peering around the corner. Sure enough, the shadow of the last guard stood out against the concrete wall and Harry ducked back just as a volley of automatic fire chipped at the concrete where his head had been.

After the quick burst however, the sound of light feet resumed and now Harry wasted no time in jumping up and rushing down the corridor after his quarry. Just as he was about to open a volley into the darkness, A shaft of light cut across the corridor as a door was flung open. The man ducked inside and was pulling the door shut as Harry sprinted forward.

Jamming his rifle into the crack between the door and the wall, Harry slammed his shoulder against the metal and was pleasantly surprised to feel the door give. The other man must have been lighter than him.

Throwing open the door and in so doing, knocking the guard onto his back, Harry barged inside, yanking off the goggles as he went. He kicked out hard as he saw the guard reach for his fallen automatic, sending the weapon flying to the other side of the room. Harry wasted no time in picking the guard up by the front of his uniform and slamming him into the nearest wall.

"Wait!" The guard yelled in accented English as Harry raised a fist to finally knock him out, "Don't kill me, I help!"

Harry breathed hard as he paused in his attack and tried to gain control of his battle-ready body. Finally lowering the fist, he jammed the barrel of the automatic under the guard's chin.

"How can you help?"

Kolya gulped painfully against the metal jammed into his neck and spoke in a hoarse, weak voice, "You can't get out of the house if you don't know the route."

Harry nodded sideways at the computer screens next to them, "You called this the control room. You should be able to find schematics of the house on these databases."

Kolya struggled to croak out his reply with the automatic pressing against his windpipe, "The main power is out, but I can boot up the auxiliary system, it has its own generator…It does not provide nearly as much access, but it will have the schematics. I can reboot the main system from the power room."

"The auxiliary will do," Harry kept his gun trained at the back of the guard, "Access anything other than the schematics, and I will have to shoot you."

"How do I know you won't shoot me anyway?" Kolya knew the question was pointless, but couldn't stop himself from voicing it.

"I'm with the government, not the mob, unlike you guys, "replied edgily as he nudged the guard forward.

Silently now, Kolya seated himself in front of a computer in the corner and typed in the access password. The main blackout had triggered the auxiliary system to turn on, so the computer was already running.

Mindful of the agent's warning, Kolya resisted opening the base communications window and instead went straight to the architectural files.

"Here's the map of the basement. Here's floor one, two, gardens…" Kolya pulled up the maps one by one, sending them to the printer. With any luck, he thought, the techies back on base were monitoring the activity on the auxiliary computer and were alerted to the unusual searches: all guards knew the way around the house and the underground system perfectly.

In under five minutes, with the maps printed, Harry told Kolya to get up and back away from the computer. Keeping an eye on the guard, Harry squeezed out a quick burst of bullets at each of the database computers and monitors, effectively destroying every piece of operable machinery in the control room. He finished with a hearty blast at the radio system before turning to face the door.

Dean sounded almost cheerful as he surveyed the damage, "Didn't know you hated technology so much, mate."

Without acknowledging the remark, Harry grabbed the papers from the printer and thrust them at Dean, before walking to the other side of the room and grabbing the automatic rifle lying there.

Making sure Kolya was sitting on the floor next to the destroyed monitors, the agents left the control room and slammed the door shut, jamming in the lock to keep the guard from opening it.

Goggles again in place, they headed back to report to Rosalind.

* * *

_5 Minutes Prior_

The same techie that had alerted Arbatiev to the power outage in the lower levels sat hunched over his computer, linked directly to the auxiliary monitor. For a while, the screen stayed blank before the password was entered and the monitor lit up.

The techie frowned as maps of the mansion suddenly sprang up on his screen, followed by a series of printing jobs. He knew one of the guards had to be on the system—no one else could have known the password—but why they had not reported back to base as instructed was inexplicable.

Moments later, Arbatiev too was frowning at the activity, although it took him only seconds to deduce the explanation, "The team undoubtedly made it to the control room, as they are in the system, but they are being ordered by someone else. Only an outsider would need maps of the building and if they have been taken prisoner, they could not have reported back."

"But sir…" the techie spoke up, "The only known outsiders are the Englishmen and the prisoners, and the Englishmen would not have attacked the team…"

Arbatiev scowled, "We don't know that, but whoever _has_ attacked, must be armed and not alone. I want the _entire_ security team ready to head out in 30 seconds. Contact Shaitanov and tell him to move to one of the shelters. Record this as a level 4 security breach."

* * *

Behind the golf fields, the bright red cross of a helipad signaled the descent of medium-sized, passenger helicopter. The black machine rocked slightly on its short legs as the wheels touched the asphalt. The pilot did not bother to stop the chopper's revolving blades, but instead waved toward the two people walking briskly across the landing pad.

Elizabeth climbed in first, taking a window seat and swiftly buckling herself in. Lucius followed, accepting one of the headsets the copilot offered to them. The door had barely closed as the helicopter lifted off from the ground and rose into a wide turn, shooting off into the night, away from the estate.

* * *

Gorozin ran swiftly through the halls of the mansion, taking the steps to the first floor three at a time. He panted from exertion as he hissed off last-minute instructions into his cell-phone, flipping the device shut as he approached the basement entrance.

Shaitanov would already have alerted by the security team about the breach and the guards would be surrounding the house any moment. If his calculations were correct, Blaise and Draco would still be out hunting the journalist for at least another half hour. The timings, however, had been cut awfully close.

"Let's go."

* * *

A/N: alrightey, another chapter done. As I said in my profile (and will remind anyone who hasn't read it now), I am going to be posting some artwork to go with my fics. The site is given in my profile. I don't actually have any for this story yet, but I will! Please tell me which scenes you especially want featured and I'll do them!

**As usual, please REVIEW! Do it for our precious, hilariously flamboyant, stripping poker player! (duh, Blaise :) )**

**-NS**


	20. Chapter 19

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By Natasha Shaitanova

**Chapter 19**: Hit and Run

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**Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter. Aw. But I own my sexy Russian businessmen :) fine, maybe not sexy, but I do own them.

**Quick A/N**: All you guys that reviewed—you have my sincerest thanks and gratitude. Seriously, if you author stories, you _know_ how good feedback feels. It's that warm, fuzzy feeling of being appreciated and acknowledged…and it provides the creative fuel for quicker updates ;)

* * *

The black BMW pulled up in front of the Shaitanov mansion, tires screeching at the painfully abrupt halt.

"Dammit, Blaise, are you trying to break my neck here?" Draco jumped out of the passenger's seat and slammed shut the door, scowling.

"Aw, shut up! At least I wasn't doing 200 on the freeway, man!" Blaise replied cheerfully as he shut down the engine, "If I let you drive, we'd have the whole Odessa's cop department on our asses!"

"Real original there, Blaise, real original," Draco muttered and strode briskly up the entrance steps, without waiting for his friend.

At the doorway, Draco quickly punched in the code and password to disengage the locking mechanism. As soon as the little red light blinked to green, he threw open the door and stepped inside, as though his annoyance drove him to rush.

Blaise rolled his eyes as he jogged up the stairs. However, he did not even make it halfway up before coming to a dead halt.

A sharp yelp issued from the doorway as Draco teetered on his feet, seemingly falling back before being yanked forcefully inside. Two voices seemed to be barking commands and Blaise caught a glimpse of several silhouettes flickering like shadows in the lantern light.

It took mere moments for Blaise to come to his mind and dash sideways off the stairs, diving into a clump of bushes. Laying flat and working his elbows through the dirt to slowly crawl forward, Blaise chances a glance back at the doorway, but the door was already shut.

* * *

Harry had not expected the front door to burst open just as they were heading past the foyer, but his first instinct was to incapacitate whomever or whatever was heading toward them. A quick jump forward and a sharp punch took care of the problem, before he yanked the culprit inside.

"Nice job, Potter," Rosalind stepped forward and peering down at Malfoy's prone body, "We can save precious time now that we don't have to hunt for him all over the mansion."

"There you are!"

Harry whirled around quickly at the foreign voice, but Rosalind grabbed his gun and held it down before he would attack.

Gorozin jogged up to the group, panting slightly, "Listen, we have exactly fifteen minutes to get to the landing platform. Less really, since Arbatiev is already moving out with his men…"

Rosalind nodded, as though everything was in order, "Thomas, pick up Malfoy. Switch off with Potter when you get tired. Gorozin, lead the way."

"Wait just a moment," Harry stood his ground, refusing to lower his automatic, "What is going on here? He was one of the men working with Shaitanov and Malfoy!"

"No, Potter," Rosalind cut him off impatiently, "Gorozin is working, albeit temporarily, with the MIA. How and why is on a need to know basis and you _do not_ need to know."

"Ms. Cox, with all due respect, his involvement could put us all at risk and—"

"Do not overstep your bounds, Potter. You are an agent, you obey your superiors. If I find that the information is classified, then that is the end of this conversation," Rosalind turned away from her agent, "Gorozin, I assume the helicopter is waiting?"

The man just shrugged, "I hope so, but they might have left if their position was compromised. We don't have time to waste."

"Thomas, bring Malfoy and follow Gorozin and I. Potter, bring up the rear. Let's go, people."

* * *

"Team 1, scout the top floors! Team 2, scout the basement! Team 3 and 4, cover the grounds! I want consistent radio feedback at every point. If you run into hostiles, engage and call for backup!"

Arbatiev stood in the middle of the back patio, shouting orders at his men, both at their stoic faces and over the electronic transmissions. The mansion was already crawling with his troops, but the grounds were a far greater distance to cover.

He cursed—whoever had instigated the blackout and attacked his recon team, they were already on the run, if not far gone. That meant—

His radio crackled.

"Sir, this is Team 2 reporting. We found the recon team!"

"What's their status?"

"All dead, but one. Sarkisov was found in the control room. All the equipment was destroyed and the door was jammed."

"Bring him up, I want to hear what he knows."

"He says there is no time, sir! He needs to speak to you immediately."

"Then put him on the line."

The radio was silent for a few seconds, before the too-young voice of Kolya Sarkisov sounded over the transmission, "Sir, the hostiles that attacked my team were the prisoners we interrogated yesterday. They were armed, with weapons they probably got from the patrol guards."

Arbatiev snarled, "You're the bastard that pulled up the building plans on the auxiliary monitor, right?"

"Sir, I called them up so that they wouldn't shoot me and so that you would know the mission had gone wrong…"

"Yeah yeah, you son of a bitch, real smart. Now they know all the escape routes from this place! Team one, get back up here and bring this little bastard with you. Team two, abandon the building and join the search teams on the grounds. Now!"

* * *

The camouflage-patterned helicopter was on the verge of hovering off the asphalt as the four escapees jumped up into the passenger cabin, dragging Malfoy up with them. The door was still wide open as the chopper lifted off, speeding up the rotation of its blades as it fought against gravity.

The surrounding grass and bushes were flattened to the ground as the down-drift from the chopper increased with liftoff, revealing the platform.

* * *

"There! Shoot it down! Shoot through the cockpit!"

Arbatiev whirled on the spot, staring out over the grounds as he heard the excited shouts over the radio.

Rapid bursts of gunfire could be heard in the distance, along with sharp clangs where the bullets ricocheted off the revolving blades.

* * *

"Fuck!" Gorozin screamed as bullets flew around the chopper, some making their way into the cabin, "Get down!"

Rosalind threw herself to the floor, dragging Malfoy down with her, as Harry and Dean stood to the sides of the door and tried to return fire at their assailants.

"Full automatic!" Harry yelled at Dean before pressing down his trigger.

The occasional bursts of gunfire from the ground aided the two agents in aiming their weapons. Sure enough, the covering fire provided enough of a lull in the assault for the helicopter to gain altitude and speed off, out of range.

"Shit…" Dean moaned as he collapsed into his seat. As he clutched his arm, warm, dark liquid seeped between his fingers and stained his shirt.

Harry looked on worriedly, "How bad is it?"

"Didn't get the bone, just a flesh wound," Dean winced and gasped as he shifted slightly, "Just nicked a chuck off the surface; these always sting the most…"

Swiftly, Harry tore off a long strip of cloth from the bottom of his shirt and twisted it into a tight rope. Moving over to sit next to Dean, he looped the cloth around his bicep and tied it tightly.

"The tourniquet should hold until we get to Odessa, then we can get you looked at properly," Harry mumbled as he tightened the knot.

"I've had worse, man, this is nothing," Dean tried to shrug, but that just caused him to grimace.

Rosalind observed the scene stoically, before switching her attention to the blond still lying on the floor of the cabin. Draco had begun stirring slightly in the past few moments, so she took out her pistol and aimed it carefully at the prisoner.

* * *

"Flight Odessa to Paris is now loading. Passengers with first class tickets please form a line—"

"That would be us," Lucius rose and graciously offered his hand to assist Elizabeth out of her seat.

Taking the proffered hand with a stiff smile, Elizabeth followed the man to the gate, a small briefcase in hand.

Standing in the middle of the buzzing line, she leaned closer to the blond and whispered, "Mr. Malfoy, would care to explain why we are abstaining from traveling by wizarding means?"

Lucius hid his annoyance well as he answered, "Elizabeth, if you would recall, I am considered a dead man. And if I am not dead, I am a very much wanted man, and by no means in a good way. Would you, were you in my position, consider walking freely into a wizarding facility and asking to use the Floo?"

Feeling slightly foolish at her oversight, Elizabeth looked off to the side, seemingly interested in the multitude of overpriced airport shops and cafes.

"Are you not afraid of Shaitanov tracking us here?"

This time Lucius could not restrain his irritation as he hissed, "If you must insist on imbecilic questions, _Elizabeth_, then kindly wait until I am in a better disposition. Right now, I am in no mood or condition to put up with second-questioning."

The pair waited in silence as they moved slowly closer to the gate. Finally, Elizabeth chanced speaking once more.

"Would you at least buy me a book for the trip?"

Lucius glared, but whatever he was planning to say he replaced with, "For the only reason that it might shut you up."

* * *

The on-duty security guard at TDC walked leisurely through the hall, banging his rubber club almost vaguely at the bars of the surrounding cells.

Some of the prisoners jeered at him, but most simply quieted as he passed. After all, the smarter ones valued what little food they got around the place. Pissing off a guard was probably the best way to lose one's breakfast.

As the guard neared the third cell on the block, he hear muffed mumbling from the corner of the cell.

"Hey, quiet there!"

He peered between the bars, trying to locate the source. One of the prisoners pointed to the left corner and mumbled "that redhead weirdo" to the guard.

"Shut it, you! You hear me? Quiet!"

The guard brandished his club before striking the bars heavily, hoping to jerk the redhead out of his stupor.

But the mumbling continued, as though oblivious to the commotion.

"Shut up, you crazy bastard! Shut it or there's no breakfast."

But Ron did not hear the guard.

"White pills, blue pills, not enough pills…no breakfast, no dinner, no matter…no pills!"

One of the prisoners whispered to him, trying to get through, "Shut the fuck up, you miserable idiot! That's the fourth time already; you'll let them starve you…"

But the mumbling didn't cease.

"Harry got lucky, Harry escaped them, didn't take them…but they'll catch up to him to, they're coming Harry! They'll take you too…they'll give you the pills, Harry, they'll give you…"

"That's it! You can say goodbye to your breakfast and lunch tomorrow, you scum. Maybe that'll teach you…" the guard glowered at the huddled redheaded figure before stalking off down the corridor.

As his heavy boots trod loudly on the cement floor, he tried not to think of how hard it was to force out the last phrase.

* * *

A/N: Okay first things first…That thing with Lucius and Elizabeth was pretty weird, I guess…I just found it sort of funny, thinking about how Lucius might have to deal with a spoiled teenage girl…But we'll see how that goes. It's not really a humorous fic.

Uh, about Blaise…well, I am kind of undecided of whether I want him as a good guy or a bad guy. What do you guys say?

Now, Gorozin. Well…that must have been unexpected, eh? Anyway, I felt like another double-cross and it'll seem clearer later.

No mention of Shaitanov in this chappie—oooh, where did the mastermind go? That's for next time.

Ron's still crazy and babbling—can anyone figure out the political parallel? It's simple.

As for Liam Montgomery…poor guy. Everyone's against him, really. Hermione will hit next chapter, probably.

So, **please REVIEW! The more reviews, the quicker the update**. **Do it for…well, wouldn't you all like to have an unconscious Draco lying on your bedroom floor? (If you're a straight guy…sorry man. Gotta pick something else then. )**

**-Shaity out**


	21. Chapter 20

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St. Petersburg Nights

By Natasha Shaitanova

**Chapter 20:** Deals, Reporters, and Lawyers

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**Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter. 

**Quick A/N:** Okay, so I haven't updated for a bit again…But I can promise you guys absolutely no updates for the next two weeks, seeing as I'm going on vacation. :) Boohoo for you, woohoo for me.

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"Cooperate with us, Mr. Malfoy, and everyone currently in this chopper comes out a winner." 

Draco, bound by Gorozin's rope curse and lying uncomfortably on the metal floor of the helicopter, glared up at Rosalind before craning his head to observe the other occupants.

"Smug up there, aren't you, Potter? Still thinking of teaching me a lesson for the death of that old coot?"

Harry grit his teeth and stared out of the window, using up all his willpower to ignore Malfoy. If he interfered, Rosalind would probably fire him for mucking up the mission.

"That unpleasant event seven years ago seems to be the crux of the matter, Mr. Malfoy," Rosalind continued, her deep voice defying the thrum of the helicopter, "Leading the group of Death Eaters into Hogwarts is the only crime you are legally charged with by the Ministry of Magic in England."

"What's the exact charge?" Draco snorted, "Conspiracy? Attempted murder?"

"Accessory to murder," Rosalind stated, in the tone of a tea-time conversation, "Enough to earn anywhere from ten to twenty years in Azkaban."

"What does it matter? All Death Eaters earn a one-way ticket to a lifetime in that hell."

"You no longer bear the Dark Mark, Mr. Malfoy," Rosalind pointed at Draco's bare left forearm, "Am I correct in assuming you got rid of it in Russia? No, you don't have to answer that."

Gorozin suddenly intervened in the conversation, "Look, can you get to the part where you tell Malfoy what his benefit is, already? He's barely paying attention to this redundant shit."

Rosalind spared a scathing glance at the uncouth businessman before turning back to the prisoner, "Mr. Malfoy, listen carefully. Per each term, the Minister of Magic is granted one pardon and one pardon _only_. It so happens that Liam Montgomery has not as of yet used that pardon. As such, he is more than willing to exercise his right should you be fully cooperative in resolving the MagiComp scandal."

"So, what? I help put corporate England back on its feet and I walk free? Just like that?"

"Just like that," Rosalind nodded, "Although we may consider the provision of exile from England, for the general safety of both parties, you will no longer be considered a wanted man. Your accounts at Gringotts and other banks will be reactivated. By all accounts, you'll be a free man, Mr. Malfoy."

"I see…so where does the infamous catch come in?" Draco grinned sardonically and let his head flop down onto the cabin floor.

"No catch, merely your full cooperation."

"That could entail a great number of things, lady."

"Address me as Ms. Cox, Mr. Malfoy," Rosalind stated primly, "You will accompany me to England and upon arrival meet privately with Mr. Montgomery. You will sign consent forms not to sue him for partial embezzlement and to keep your nose out of the media on the matter. In return, you will receive monetary reparations as well as full pardon from the Minister."

Draco interrupted almost lazily, "And I expect those reparations will not be anywhere close to the actual amount Montgomery embezzled from my family's stocks?"

"The reparations will be a smaller amount, but fully compensated for by the value of the pardon," Rosalind frowned, "I realize this bypasses a good deal of constitutional regulations, but circumstances require it. You cannot deny, Mr. Malfoy, that this is the best possible offer anyone will make you at this point."

"Well, my hands are tied!" Draco chuckled ironically as he tried to tug at his bonds, "I suppose taking your deal is my only option."

As Rosalind nodded approvingly, Harry and Dean exchanged troubled looks.

* * *

Blaise slinked through the shadows of various vegetation, avoiding moonlit patches of grass, as he searched the Shaitanov grounds for any hint of human presence. 

Having successfully navigated to the back of the mansion without being seen, he spotted a brightly lit area on the back porch. The accompanying shouts in loud Russian assured him that he was not facing hostiles…at least technically.

Moving closer, Blaise recognized the two figures arguing and issuing commands in the middle of the melee: Shaitanov and Arbatiev.

Carefully raising his hands in the air, Blaise proceeded forward at full height, shouting a greeting as he went,

"Don't shoot! Blaise Zabini, here! Don't shoot!"

And yet, no less than twenty guns immediately pointed in Blaise's direction. Flinching, he continued, "It's me, Blaise Zabini! Don't shoot!"

Finally, Shaitanov motioned for the guards to lower the automatics, "Approach!"

Blaise walked swiftly into the lamplight, still keeping his hands in the air. Only when Shaitanov and Arbatiev visibly relaxed and motioned him forward did he heave a sigh of relief.

Shaitanov spoke first, "Where is Draco Malfoy? He should have been with you, seeing the journalist?"

"Draco got napped," at the other man's blank face, Blaise elaborated, "We got back from the meet and were entering the house when Draco was knocked out and captured. I was a bit behind him and managed to get out of range."

"Who got him?"

"I have no idea, they were inside. All I saw was Draco getting punched and then yanked through the doorway.'

Blaise fidgeted under Shaitanov's glare, but soon found out that switching his gaze to Arbatiev was worse. The man looked absolutely murderous.

Finally, Shaitanov addressed Arbatiev in Russian, ignoring Blaise, "If Cox is out, with Potter and that other agent, and if they've got Malfoy, then they are not sticking around. They must have been in that helicopter."

"Sir" Arbatiev seemed to steel himself against Shaitanov's stare before breaking the news, "The elder Malfoy, Gorozin, and Elizabeth Montgomery are also missing."

Shaitanov pulled a face, "Gorozin is missing? Now there's a mystery…"

"Sir, with all due respect…" Arbatiev shrugged, "There's nothing to be done about any of them at this point. We can't catch up because we don't know where they are going…'

"Of course we know where they are going., you worthless fool. They are going to the place that started this whole mess. All of them want the money—as such, they are all going to England."

"Sir?"

"Reassemble the teams. Pick your best ten men and have them board the East end plane."

Arbatiev gave a pseudo-salute, before moving off to carry out his orders. Meanwhile, Shaitanov turned back to Blaise, switching to English.

"The complications are unexpected, but are being addressed thoroughly, Mr. Zabini. They should not keep you from carrying out your assignment."

Blaise frowned, "You want me to keep working with Granger?"

Shaitanov raised both eyebrows and pulled his mouth down in a rather mocking expression, as though saying "What do you think?"

"Right…" Blaise bit his lip, unable to hide his residual nervosa, "But if Potter has escaped, then that is going to be known pretty soon…she'll stop cooperating."

"No one will know for at least another 48 hours. Get back to her later today and tell her that she is free to print the contents of the other folder."

Blaise's eyes widened considerably.

* * *

Liam Montgomery was a mess, truly and fully. He sat behind his magnificent desk with his head in his hands, curtains drawn and door jammed to block out the over-eager reporters. 

The impudent headlines from the Daily Prophet, the BBC MagDiv, and even the Quibbler mocked him as he chanced a glance at his tabletop.

"_Liam Montgomery: Post-War Reconstructionist or Corporate Shark?; MagiComp scandalous corporate history dates back to pre-war year; Montgomery: the ruthless businessman revealed!"_

Even as he sulked, there was a distinct knock on his door and a voice filtered through the receiver next to his phone, "Kreg Kavitz. Mind opening the door anytime during this term?"

Montgomery sighed in relief and flicked his wand at the door, deactivating the locks. His damage control director walked briskly inside, "I must say, that was fast. Almost as fast as they are gonna run you out of office."

Montgomery groaned and buried his head back in his hands, "Thanks for that one, Kreg. It's really a disaster, isn't it?"

Kavitz snorted as he flopped into a chair in front of the Minister's desk, "It's a war zone out there, I swear. The damn reporters are having such a field day, even the Aurors are afraid to approach them."

Kavitz vaguely examined his nails, "I think they might consider catapulting your office door next. Or maybe they'll just nuke your office…"

"Okay, I get it!" Montgomery slammed his hands down onto the tabletop, "How the hell do we get this under control?"

"Control?" Kavitz laughed, "Are you joking? I don't know what's got Granger so against you to dredge up those sketchy deals, but she screwed your ass over so bad…Look, those articles took the control out of 'Damage Control' like a—"

"Kreg. What the fuck do I do?"

Kavitz paused in his tirade and looked carefully at the Minister. Honestly, the man did not look anything like a CEO or a "Chief Executor" by a long shot—he had the distinct look of defeat and despair that only Fudge could have rivaled.

"The only thing that's gonna lessen this mess is a very, very huge check to a member of the Malfoy family. And seeing as one is dead and one is missing…I'd say you are going to be holed up in this office for a very long time. Maybe until reelections. Then they are going to drag you out and crucify you…"

Montgomery moaned and shook his head, "Look, can't I just whip out some public apology speech?"

"Not enough. They'll stone you on the stand…"

"How about a statement to the public, sent through one of my aids?"

"They'll AK you when you show your face in the window…"

"Can you come up with a death for me that is _not_ cliché?" Montgomery growled, "Okay, let's be logical about this. How about I just hand over the reparations to the Ministry of Magic? The National Treasury can handle it, seeing as no Malfoys are available…"

"Don't even think about it,' Kavitz looked at his employer like he would at a particularly dim five-year-old, "If they are going to impeach you, then you are going to need that money for good lawyers and a healthy retirement, as well as eventually _forced_ reparations to the government. No need to let them have any early free-bees."

"Is there a happy ending scenario somewhere around this mess?"

"Trust me, not even the Americans get their Hollywood ending when it comes to presidential scandals. Remember Nixon?"

"Don't remind me…"

"Bush?"

"Which one?"

"Good point," Kavitz scratched his chin, "Look, as a friend to a friend…I am not really here to tell you how to handle this situation, because no one really can. I am just here to tell you that you are already down 50 percent by staff."

"They've started resigning?"

"The moment the newspapers hit the shelves. I think you still have all those governmental secretary blokes, but the personal aids are long gone."

"And you?"

Kavitz threw a short stack of papers onto the desk, "I'm not suicidal. I just waited until you were coherent enough to sign these."

"Resignation papers?"

"No, you idiot," only Kavitz would have ever dared to so blatantly insult the Minister to his face, "These are preliminary statements that we can release to the public; I had Alice write them up. Just put your signature on the bottom of the forms."

"You're sticking it out?"

Kavitz's smile could not have been more derisive, "What choice do I have?"

* * *

On the third day of his incarceration, Ron woke before the other prisoners and walked, mumbling, to the cell door. He waited throughout the morning until a guard came around during the regular rounds. 

"What are you staring at, retard? Get away from the bars and back to your corner!"

Ron ignored the guard's words and spoke clearly to him, even though his voice was scratchy and weak, "They told me at check-in that I was here for one night, for being held in contempt of government authority, or something…"

"Oh, the loony speaks, huh? Well I tell you what," the guard leered through the bars, "Get outta my face before you're held in contempt of _me."_

"But I was supposed to be let out," Ron frowned in confusion, "Why aren't you letting me out?"

The guard only sneered in response.

"You can't hold me without a charge!" Ron's voice began gaining strength and momentum, "I know my rights, I am entitled to a trial and a lawyer if there is a charge! If there is no charge, you have to let me go!"

"Hey, guess what, loony? Watching Law 'n' Order doesn't make you the expert around here…"

"I want a lawyer!" Ron screamed as he strained against the bars, "Get me a lawyer! You can't keep me in here!"

But the guard just laughed and continued his rounds down the hall.

* * *

A/N: Okay, the name Kavitz…well, for some reason "Kaulitz" sprang up when I was thinking up a German name and I figured I'd just change it a bit to avoid another disclaimer. 

As for the legal bits…Do you guys see where they are coming together? I don't really expect you to. But honestly, I'll be as accurate as I can when it comes to the law and all that. I mean, I am not expert attorney, so give me some slack. I won't bury myself in faulty details…

**Please review!!! More reviews equals more chapters, its that simple :)**

-Shaity out.


	22. Chapter 21

**

* * *

**

By Natasha Shaitanova

* * *

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Harry Potter_. I own my characters and plot. So, please no plagiarism.

**Quick A/N:** So! I'm back from vacation! I'll consider some quicker updates now that I've got the time.

* * *

"Zabini."

"You know, you mind not looking at me like I'm one of your particularly stoned reporters?" Blaise lounged comfortably on the sofa situated in the main trailer, his words contradicting the sugary smile.

Hermione thinned her mouth another fraction before turning her back on the intruder and pouring herself a drink from the mini-bar.

"What do you want?"

"You won't offer me a drink?" Blaise attempted a faux pout, but his charades seemed to be out of stride, "I must say, you raised quite a chaotic situation in England with those articles. Better than we expected."

"Yes, I did, didn't I?" Hermione turned, eyes smoldering defiantly behind her spectacles, "Printed it exactly as you wanted, no reservations. And what now? More blackmail? More tainted information?"

"No," Blaise replied simply and stood, "That was all, as promised. This will be the second and last of our meetings, on only one condition."

"Of course, just one more."

"You do not hesitate to print the contents of the second folder. That article has to be out the moment all those politicos pick up their newspapers tomorrow morning."

Hermione's hand clenched over the crystal tumbler, "Those pictures…how do I know they are valid?"

"Have your techies check them out," Blaise shrugged and zipped up his jacket, ready to leave, "Besides, I'm sure everyone will be getting more footage in about 48 hours. You are just lucky enough to be the first."

As a loud crack signaled Blaise's departure, Hermione set down the tumbler and walked the length of the trailer to stop in front of her safe. Laying her palm to the cool surface, she waited for the light to blink green.

The folder lay where she left it, looking utterly innocuous and empty on the black metal of the inner compartment. Hermione cast a swift look behind her to ensure her privacy, before flicking open the file.

Lucius' face stared arrogantly off the edge of the photograph, a glass of wine lifted with careless grace between the long fingers. Dated only two days prior.

* * *

The grey, unmarked helicopter touched down on the far side of the Odessan airport. The engines hardly stopped turning before several suited men gathered around the vehicle and began shepherding out the passengers.

Rosalind stepped forward, ahead of the group, to converse in low tones with one of the suits. The man soon nodded jerkily and turned his back, apparently striding away.

"Come on," Rosalind called to the agents and Gorozin, as she followed the departing man.

The rest of the suits swiftly fell into formation surrounding the arrivals, one of them securing a pair of handcuffs on Malfoy.

Dean, unsure of the turn of events, murmured to Harry, "Is this our welcoming committee or are we in seriously deep shit?"

"Search me," Harry shrugged, "But Rosalind doesn't seem to be complaining.

True to the Director's judgment, the group soon stopped in front of an express jet, where a fueling crew was preparing the plane for take-off.

The suited man again turned to Rosalind and this time Harry caught his words.

"Another of your agents checked in half an hour ago. We put him on the plane after checking his credentials. He stated he was bound to report back to base."

"Who is the agent?"

"A Luna Lovegood."

Harry and Dean shared astonished glances—neither had noticed the eccentric girl back in training. Before either could voice their surprise, however, a member of the fueling crew came up to the group and notified them that the plane was ready.

Harry entered the plane last, guiding a sullen Malfoy along by a rather uncompromising grip on his upper arm. As the door slid shut behind him, the suits seemed to dissipate from the vicinity.

Harry pushed Malfoy down in a seat midway down the plane and considered whether he should continue his watch or proceed to the back of the plane where Rosalind appeared to be conversing with a yellow turban.

"What, afraid I'm going to jump out at 13,000 feet now, Potter?" Draco sniped as he noticed Harry's indecision, "Or maybe, since I'm such a hardened criminal, I'll just pull a bomb out of my ass and suicide-blow this thing up…"

A snarled comeback was on the verge of slipping off his lips, when Harry felt an insistent tap on his shoulder. Turning, he discovered a rather scrawny flight attendant pulling at his sleeve.

"Sir, would you—"

"No, I don't want a drink. A little busy here…"

"Not a drink, sir," the scrawny attendant smiled an indulgent grin, almost condescending had it not been for the devoted gleam in his wide, bulging eyes, "Excuse me…"

Harry found himself being pushed firmly aside as the attendant slipped past him. Without wasting a moment, the attendant whipped a black mask out of his apron. Grabbing the back of Draco's head, he held the struggling captive still and swiftly pulled the mask over his face.

Immediately, Draco's curses were blocked out by the charmed cloth, which was pulled tight over his ears, eyes and mouth.

The attendant then disengaged the hand cuffs on Draco's wrists and with the use of another pair (again pulled from the apron) attached each wrist to an arm rest. All this was done in less than thirty seconds.

Apparently satisfied with his work, the deceptively scrawny attendant turned back Harry, "Now, what kind of drink would you like sir?"

Harry just shook his head mutely and allowed the attendant to walk past him. With a final dumbfounded glance at Malfoy, he walked over to the yellow turban.

Gorozin was staring uninterestedly out of one of the miniscule windows, as Rosalind and Dean conversed with Luna. As he approached, Harry took a moment to study his old classmate.

Aside front the gigantic yellow turban, Luna seemed to have adjusted toward normality with the years. Her hair was pulled away from her face in a messy bun, revealing lightly glittering stud earrings, a touch of black mascara, and a hint of coral lipstick. She was dressed in a thin, black sweater of a rather casual fit, and a pair of navy jeans. The boots hiding under the bell bottoms were heavy and durable.

"—can forget cooperation. Somehow they got wind that a man named Shaitanov was involved in the search and that has completely changed the atmosphere. They are still willing to go through with the exchange, but on the newly added condition of us delivering Shaitanov to them."

"What if we tell them it's impossible and they need to amend the demands?" Rosalind frowned, not liking the news.

"I already tried out the possibility, but they are unwilling to budge. They insist that since our need for the exchange is far greater, they get to set the terms."

Rosalind cursed and drummed her fingers on the armrest. Suddenly she stood up and walked briskly to the front of the plane, straight into the pilot cabin.

As the director left, Harry turned to Luna, "Exchange?"

Luna met Harry's inquiring gaze with her own, still as vague and pale, "You know our business is classified. You know yours, I know mine. They don't intersect."

"Luna, in the physical universe that we occupy, they cross all the time," Harry spoke urgently, "My investigation involved Shaitanov directly. Hell, the man tortured me only a few hours ago. Any information you can add could be vital!"

"My work goes beyond the scope of your investigation, Harry," Luna spoke quietly and her eyes flicked lazily along the length of the plane, "The MIA is negotiating a deal with the magical division of the Russian intelligence agency."

Dean jumped in, "You mean the FSB?"

"The _other _FSB, the one involved in the magical world," came the unhurried reply, "They have one of our agents."

"So, it's an agent exchange? We have one of theirs, they—ours?" Harry needed to clarify. He glanced quickly at the front of the plane, but Rosalind was still out of sight.

"That's the general idea. Only the agent we've got wasn't captured; he ran from the FSB in the first place," the plane's engines started and a loud thrum filled the cabin, "He got out five years ago, settled in England."

As the pilot's door began to open, Harry leaned forward urgently," Who is he? What's his name?"

Luna turned her pale, penetrating gaze directly on Harry and cocked her head to the side, as though considering whether he was deserving of the information. Apparently, she decided in his favor.

"Kreg Kavitz."

* * *

"Welcome to the London Airport. New arrivals, please proceed to baggage claim area—"

An attractive, young brunette woman walked leisurely through the airport, hand in hand with a strikingly handsome blond man. Not having packed bags in the rush from Odessa, the pair proceeded calmly outside of the building and called up a taxi. For all the world, they could have two newlyweds returning from their honeymoon. The only thing missing was the rings.

Lizzie tried to keep down her fury and revulsion as she let her hand go slack in Lucius' grip. Her companion had insisted on the arrangement to ensure she didn't run.

During the flight, Lucius had performed a quick charm under the pretense of using the restroom, to throw a good twenty, thirty years off his features. His newly youthful appearance ensured that no suspicion was raised as he strolled along with a girl in her late teens by his side.

As the pair got into the back seat of the taxi, Lucius gave the driver an address that Lizzie vaguely recognized as the street just outside of the new Ministry of Magic building.

Keeping her gaze averted from the object of her attention, Elizabeth spoke quietly, "And just how do you intend to march through the Ministry, into his office, without being stopped by the Aurors?"

"By use of your charming attitude, of course. Who is going to question the daughter of the Minister?"

"The reporters. They will bury us alive."

"Apparition is not outside the realm of our imagination."

Elizabeth shook her head, "The top floor is a no-Apparition zone."

"That can be lifted," Lucius smirked Elizabeth as she turned to face him.

"You suggest it would be possible to get someone to lift it?"

"Aren't you on good terms with any of your father's higher ups?"

"One or two. What good is that supposed to do?"

"You will contact them. Say you want to by-pass the reporters to see your father. I am sure they can do you that one favor, no?"

Elizabeth clenched her jaw, knowing the plan had long been in place and she was not listening to any sort of suggestion. The commands rang clear. "How am I supposed to contact them?"

Lucius quirked an eyebrow, "Why, call them, of course. I trust you know a Mr. Kavitz?"

In response to Lizzie's jerky nod, Lucius took out a slim cell phone from his jacket and entered a number from the contacts list.

Lizzie accepted the phone with a steady hand, although her voice could have been stronger as she spoke, "Hello? Is this Kreg Kavitz?"

"Who wants to know?"

"Mr. Kavitz! This is Elizabeth Montgomery, I was calling—"

"Elizabeth, huh? Aren't you supposed to be somewhere in Eastern Europe?"

"No, I had to return due to some extenuating circumstances…Mr. Kavitz," Elizabeth took a deep breath before continuing, "I wanted to see my father as soon as possible, but I am afraid of having to deal with hordes of paparazzi in the Ministry. Could it be possible for me to apparate to just outside his office instead?"

"I am sure you are aware of the anti-apparition wards, Elizabeth. Are you seriously asking me to lift them?"

"…Yes," Lizzie tried not to give away her own insecurity, but the voice that carried over the line was far from confident. She was fully prepared for an abrupt refusal.

"Well, I guess it can't harm anything. This place has gone to hell already. Are you alone?"

"I am."

"Okay, then keep it that way. You are going to get a window of exactly thirty seconds to apparate in and then I'm sealing down the wards."

"Thank you," Lizzie almost whispered.

"Don't worry, I wouldn't hand anyone over to those vultures in the lobby. Much less a pretty face like yours."

After a few final words and goodbyes, Elizabeth handed the phone back to Lucius.

"He'll call when the wards are down. That should be any moment."

Lucius' tone was almost humorous, "Yes, so I heard. Did you really think I'd let you talk to him with listening in on the conversation?"

Lizzie rolled her eyes. Of course she had noticed the speakerphone.

"Awright, this is your stop."

Lucius vaguely remembered to pay the driver before the two left, thrusting money into the man's hand with an expression of utmost boredom.

"Sir, that is way too much, I don't have enough change..."

"Just consider it incentive to keep your mouth shut."

Lucius barely managed to join Elizabeth on the sidewalk before the taxi sped away, a far happier driver behind its wheel.

"Let's go."

Again grabbing hold of Lizzie's hand, Lucius walked briskly through the crowd of pedestrians and turned into a side alley. He navigated further away from the main street and finally stopped behind a particularly noxious garbage bin. He fished out the cell phone just as it began vibrating in his hand. Lizzie answered.

"Are they down?"

"You can come on in, sweetheart."

Lucius pressed the end button, before grabbing Lizzie's arm and twisting on the spot. A loud crack and all that was left was a cracked phone lying on the dirty asphalt.

* * *

A/N: I do believe that this is my longest chapter to date. Okay, with the FSB and Kreg Kavitz—I really can't explain without giving away what is going to happen, but I think the link is obvious. You should be beginning to see the motives springing up for several characters. Explanations will follow in the next chapter.

Now, I gotta ask you guys. This is **important.** **Do you want any pairings in this story?** I know it's a touch late to ask, but I wasn't going to introduce any before anyway. So…who do you want with who? Any at all? Drop a note and I'll consider it. :)

So, **Please Review!! Do it for a blindfolded, tied up Draco Malfoy. We don't want him to stay like that, do we?**

Shaity out.


	23. Chapter 22

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* * *

**

**St. Petersburg Nights**

**Chapter 22: Agents Revealed Part I**

By Natasha Shaitanova

* * *

**Disclaimer**: I don't own _Harry Potter_. 

**A/N**: yeah, I know it's been ages since I've updated, but hey – newsflash! Life's crises intervene. One more thing, and this is for **Argo:** I'm sorry, I noticed that I killed Dean in the first/second chapter but never got around to changing it. Will do so right now! As for Ron, he wasn't literally mute, so it's not physically impossible for him to talk again. Let's just say that time and need caused the change.

a naschet pari, nu...mozhet' bit' :). Eshe ne znau, no esli plunu na mnenie nekotorih chitatelei, to mozh' i sdelau. a v principe uzh ochen' podhodyashe. krasivoe budet' zakluchenie snimi, a?

And so, without further ado…

* * *

_A few minutes prior_

Kreg Kavitz rushed into Liam Montgomery's office, shutting the door swiftly behind him. Without paying heed to the minister, he strode over to the windows and pulled shut the blinds, then shut down the cameras in the upper corners of the room.

"Kreg, what are you—"

Kavitz pushed the minister back into his seat before standing before his desk, "Your daughter is arriving outside your office in a matter of moments. I am going to call her in just a second to tell her that I am taking down the wards on this floor."

"Taking down the wards…!"

"Liam, this is your daughter we are talking about, alright? Would you rather I told her to go through the lobby?"

Montgomery rubbed his forehead, "No, no of course not. They'd eat her alive. But wait, what is she—"

Kavitz's cellphone rang, cutting the minister off.

"Yes? They're down? Ok, good. Put them back on in precisely sixty seconds."

Montgomery jumped, "A minute?? You are putting the wards down for a full minute? They'll swamp us! I know it, we have to get out of here, we have to…"

For the second time that day, Kavitz barked at the minister to seat himself as he redialed Lizzie's number.

"You can come on in, sweetheart."

* * *

Lizzie's head spun as she was dumped unceremoniously onto the tiled floor, her lungs still tight from apparition. She did not get a chance to recover, however, as Lucius dragged her to her feet and knocked on the minister's office door. 

The door opened in a flash and Lucius did not waste a moment in pushing Kavitz forcefully back inside and locking the door behind himself and Elizabeth.

"Hello, Minister."

Montgomery did not dare move as he stared at the ghost in front of him, "Malfoy! You are dead! Elizabeth? What…?"

"Very obviously I am _not_ dead, Minister, as your daughter can testify," Lucius moved to take one of the seats in front of the desk, pushing Lizzie towards the other, "And now we are going to chat."

"No, we are not doing anything of the sort!" Montgomery bristled and motioned to Kavitz, "Call security and arrest this man immediately!"

Even before Montgomery had time to finish his outcry, Malfoy's wand was pointing at Lizzie's head.

"Let's _not_ do that minister. Keep your hands on the desk, where I can see them."

Silently complying, Montgomery looked over at his daughter, wide-eyed.

Lizzie, face pale and drawn, barely mouthed _I'm sorry_ at Kavitz before casting her eyes downward, flinching away from the wand at her temple.

"What do you want?" Montgomery narrowed his eyes but soon realized that the man in front of him would not be intimidated.

"Me? I want my fair share. I want the millions that my stock is worth and that you have stolen."

"You are a criminal, Malfoy. Your shares were rightfully absolved by the company."

"Not so. The shares should have been transferred to my closest relative – either Narcissa or my son Draco."

"Both of whom fled the country after learning that they faced charges for murder and conspiracy!"

"Contrived, idiotic charges," Lucius waved an impatient hand, "Draco may have had some shady goings-on, but Narcissa was clear. There were no charges."

"Regardless," Montgomery resumed his pompous manner, "None of the appropriate persons were present to assume ownership of the stock. Therefore, it had to be split between the Senior Partners."

Lucius leaned forward, rather viciously gleeful, "I'm here now, aren't I? And I want what's due to me."

* * *

Countless reporters were milling around in the lobby of the Ministry of Magic, avidly exchanging rumors traveling throughout the building. The noise level and the humidity from such a collection of bodies could be comparable to a rock concert, with Liam Montgomery taking center stage. 

A couple of Granger's underlings chattered animatedly near the fireplaces, eager to enlighten every ear in the vicinity about the Odessa stories.

"I heard she already has a draft for tomorrow's story out to a few select personas! It's supposed to be _big_, bigger than anything we've ever…Aaargh!"

The reporter and his colleagues almost fell over themselves scrambling away from the fireplaces as they burst to life in tall green flames.

The hubbub died down as the missing MIA Director stepped smoothly out of the first fireplace, to be followed swiftly by the three infamous agents, the formerly-elusive criminal, and an unknown man in full black.

Before the reporters had time to gather their senses and jam microphones into their faces, Harry and Dean drew up force-fields around the groups. Keeping their wands outstretched, they moved forward, leading the assembly to the elevators.

Rosalind looked straight ahead, face blank, as the journalists screamed and waved their equipment wildly around the shield. Draco, no longer blindfolded but still cuffed, let his hair obscure his face as he looked determinedly at the floor. As for Gorozin…well, one might have taken him for a Hollywood actor as he yelled out to Harry and Dean,

"Smile and wave, boys! Smile and wave!" and proceeded to do just so himself.

The group navigated successfully through the lobby and the elevators, finally reaching the administrative floor.

"Take down the wards," Rosalind ordered as they were blocked from exiting the elevator by a foreign force-field.

Harry felt around the corners of the doorway, testing the type and formation of the wards.

"They are not at their full strength; they must have been taken down recently."

Dean frowned, "Doesn't matter, does it? They should be brought to full power after resuming, right?"

"No," Harry shook his head," For the first five minutes following reinstallment, the wards are shifting to configure to the area they are placed over. That's why they are slightly weaker. Someone took the wards down in the past few minutes."

Rosalind glanced at her watch and then at her agent impatiently, "So, hurry up and dismantle them! There's no time to waste."

Given that the wards were still faulty, it took Harry, Luna, and Dean a mere half minute to crate an opening in the barrier. They did not bother to take down the apparition blocks for the sake of time.

The group rushed down the corridor to the minister's office, but as they neared the door, Rosalind stopped.

"Where the hell is Gorozin?"

* * *

"_Where the hell is Gorozin?"_

Hearing the muffled exclamation outside, Lucius and Montgomery momentarily broke their glares staring at the door. Kavitz took the moment of distraction to leap forward and snap out a sharp punch at Lucius' face. Grabbing his wand, he bound the man before pulling open the door to the office.

Rosalind twisted sharply on the spot as the door flew open, revealing a disheveled Damage Control Director.

"Inside, now."

As everyone filed in, Rosalind took stock of the situation: Lucius swearing from his bound position on the floor, cheek swollen; Elizabeth hugging her father and exchanging placating words; Kavitz waving his wand around wildly, shouting something about ghosts.

"Alright, everyone just be quiet!" she barked at the occupants, "Sit down!"

The few persons near available chairs dropped down quickly, while the rest shifted to stand against a nearby wall.

"Kavitz, take the binds off Malfoy senior."

"What? With all due respect, Ms. Cox—"

Seeing his hesitation, Rosalind turned instead to Dean and gestured for him to get it done.

"Wait, what the hell is going on?" Montgomery detached himself from his chair and finally stepped forward, "You, Ms. Cox, disappear from the face of the world for Merlin knows how long, the Ministry and the MIA is in tatters, and here you turn up out of the blue with three likewise missing agents, a criminal and decide to let go another criminal who is _supposed to be dead _to boot!"

Rosalind crossed her arms and simply stared at Montgomery with a look of pure scorn as he talked himself into silence.

"Are you quite done? Good," she said, not waiting for a response. She turned to Lucius, "I want a full verbal report on the matter right now; there will be no time to send in anything written."

Lucius picked himself up and rubbed his jaw in a mock-sorrowful manner, "How so? Are you terminating me?"

"You will be sent to a safe-house. By tomorrow, the Russians will know your status."

* * *

Harry stared bewildered at his Director and the older Malfoy as they conversed. He considered interjecting with questions, but it seemed that the higher-ups were not about to pay him any heed. 

Rosalind was still speaking, "How did you escape the Russian prison?"

Lucius assumed a smug stature in response, "Remember the hologram I sent after Zabini? I left one in my image at the cell."

"How did you get out?"

"The guard thought I was cute."

"Malfoy…"

Lucius shrugged and stayed silent. Not foreseeing an answer in the near future, Rosalind moved on, "Alright, you contacted me after you escaped. I told you to contact Shaitanov. What did you do?"

"I met with Gorozin, who was a former acquaintance. He told me he was in your service for this job and told me he'd introduce me to Shaitanov."

"And then?"

"We fed Shaitanov a cock-and-bull story about me wanting my money from Montgomery and how we could work together, each get a share."

"Shaitanov wouldn't have bought that."

"You're right. That's not all that was involved."

Rosalind fought hard not to grind her teeth, "I want the facts, Malfoy, what happened?"

"I told you, we convinced him to accept me into confidence. How we managed it is our business."

"Wait!"

Everyone turned from the pair as Harry stepped forward after his interruption.

"Wait," he continued, "Could someone explain what is going on here? Ms. Cox, why is Malfoy…?"

Harry let his question hang as he struggled to take in the implications of the conversation.

"Malfoy is an agent of the MIA," Rosalind responded stiffly, "He was captured by the Magical branch of the FSB a month ago on a mission and since then we have entered into negotiations with the Russians to retrieve him. Apparently, however, those negotiations won't be necessary due to his escape."

"Wait, but what about his history? He was a Death Eater! He should be carrying out a life sentence in Azkaban, not spying for us!"

"Life is complicated Potter," Rosalind threw out the dismissive remark, turning back to the older agent, "There are several papers you need to sign."

"Resignation?"

"That and witness protection forms. You will be sent into hiding."

Lucius scoffed, "Can't you just acquit me for service to the country or something along those lines?"

"Only if you have a death wish. By tomorrow, the Russians will have agents on our ground, hunting you down. The MIA can protect you for your former services."

"And you expect me to just _agree_ to hole myself up?"

"Lovegood has the papers."

Luna stepped forward, taking out several folders from her bag and laying them out on the minister's table. Harry watched bewildered Rosalind and Montgomery quickly swirled signatures onto the paper, ensuring the safety of the former Death Eater.

"Please sign here, Mr. Malfoy…"

* * *

**A/N**: Okay, as you can see, only part of the issues is revealed here. No doubt you are still wondering about Draco, Kavitz, and where Shaitanov disappeared to. That will all be addressed in time. 

Soon. In fact, I intend to update very very soon now because the story is moving faster. That, and I don't foresee major crises in my future…gods, I hope. So all should go smoothly to the end. Although ,the end is not so near yet.

By the way, you guys didn't reply to pairings. I'll ask one more time, **do you want pairings or not? I got a suggestion for Harry/Draco for now. **Let me know, peeps.

Shaity out.


	24. Chapter 23

** St. Petersburg Nights**

By Natasha Shaitanova

**Chapter 23**: Agents Revealed II

* * *

**Disclaimer**: I don't own _Harry Potter_. Also, I shamelessly took the name "Wolfram and Hart" for my purposes, so _no_ I don't own the evil law firm from _Angel_. And no, this is not a crossover. I just needed the name of a fictional law firm and that's the first thing that came to mind. 

**A/N**: Told you I'd update soon :). Also, results! Well, since we have a _unanimous_ majority voting for Draco/Harry, Draco/Harry is shall be!

Also, you may have noticed that I kind of "updated" the Wizarding world in this story – they are not as stuck in the 18th century technology anymore. Honestly…So don't complain if I use 'pen' instead of 'quill', or 'phone' instead of 'floo'.

* * *

_Previously on St. Petersburg Nights:_

_Luna stepped forward, taking out several folders from her bag and laying them out on the minister's table. Harry watched bewildered Rosalind and Montgomery quickly swirled signatures onto the paper, ensuring the safety of the former Death Eater._

"_Please sign here, Mr. Malfoy…"_

* * *

Lucius did not move from his spot and crossed his arms, "Do you remember our deal?" 

"Of course," Rosalind threw over her shoulder as she checked the papers, "You have nothing to worry about. You were acquitted before starting the job and I am the only one who has access to those documents."

"So, what? Am I supposed to just live on MIA welfare the rest of my life?"

"Only for a week, two at most. That's how long it should take for a team to create a new identity for you. The money from the Malfoy accounts will be transferred there."

When Lucius continued to stare glumly at the carpeting, Rosalind snapped her fingers sharply to get his attention.

"Look, this is the best offer MIA is going to give you. Either you get left in the open, ready game for the Russians and the Ministry's uninformed law enforcement, or you take the chance to start a new life as man with a pristine record. What is it going to be?"

Not a single occupant of the room dared to speak as Lucius stepped forward, accepting the offered pen.

* * *

The large black letters spelling out "Wolfram and Hart" loomed menacingly over the square as they introduced the steel monolith rising into the sky in the background. Suits of all color marched with determined, hasty strides in every which direction across the plaza, creating an atmosphere of tense impatience so customary to the legal world. 

Gorozin, not to be outdone, walked briskly past the towering sign in his brand new Armani suit and suitcase. As he passed a trashcan, he discretely threw away the purchase tags.

Pulling his jacket tighter around his torso, Gorozin hurried to the entrance through the howling wind and snowfall, taking refuge in the lobby.

"Appointment with Dolokhov," he stated smoothly to the receptionist, whilst glancing over the lobby.

"Name?"

"Alexei Gorozin."

The receptionist typed at great rapidity for a moment or two, before looking up, "Third floor, conference room number 217. You may also like to know that you are 18 minutes late."

"Yes yes, thank you."

Gorozin rushed off, taking the gilded elevator to the assigned floor. He stared askance at two rather pale, altogether too broody men next to him, but decided that keeping a low profile may be the best course of action after all.

A cheerful electronic chime, half a hall of rushed footsteps, and several deep breaths later, Gorozin was standing in the doorway with a distinct feeling of being crucified.

"What the fuck happened to you?"

The moment Gorozin heard Shaitanov utter expletive, he knew the situation had taken a downturn. He never cursed.

Shaitanov stood up from his seat behind the conference table and stalked toward his partner, "Imagine for a second how this looks. The mansion's electricity is cut, the recon team is shot, the prisoners have escaped, a helicopter is stolen by said prisoners, _and you are missing for all of this!_"

Gorozin shrugged, "I had personal business to attend to."

"In England?"

"Obviously. In fact, Dolokhov here can tell you all about it."

Shaitanov turned on the man standing in the far corner, "What is he talking about?"

"I've been checking up on Gorozin's stocks for him, an old favor," came the surly reply, "A little problem turned up yesterday and I needed his signature to transfer the shares. As he said, the rest is personal business."

Shaitanov looked between the two, not buying a single word of the bluff, a fact he let them know without preamble. At Gorozin's unchanging blank face, however, he changed tactics.

"The deal is falling through, gentlemen. Malfoy has met with Montgomery and no doubt will work out his own terms."

"Pardon?" Gorozin moved forward and collapsed into one of the leather chairs..

"Without a doubt."

"And you think the public will just buy it? I doubt the Minister's pardon is enough when…"

Dolokhov stepped forward, still as gloomy, "It's always enough. It's not just some document or verbal apology. It's a magical contract – the pardoned cannot be touched by law enforcement, by media, or by the public for the deeds of which he was acquitted."

At the others' disbelieving glances, Dolokhov made an upward flick with his pale eyes which may have signified an eye-roll, "How else do you think a former Death Eater got to be junior partner at this place?"

Gorozin looked incredulous, "Scrimgeour pardoned you?"

"Hell yeah," Dolokhov looked smug, "He himself was facing impeachment trials after the war and I was his only in to Wolfram and Hart. Everyone knows they are the best lawyers around."

Shaitanov snorted, "Yeah, except it's not lawyers that we need now."

"You won't fight for MagiComp?" Gorozin raised his eyebrows at the thought.

"Forget the damn company," Shaitanov growled, "It's stock will plummet so much from the scandal, there will be no chance of recovery. No. now, I just want them dead. All of them."

Dolokhov imitated a yawn, "Of course you do. Let's walk straight into the middle Ministry of Magic and Avada the bastard. Great plan."

Gorozin sent the man a scathing look, before turning back to Shaitanov, "Just who do you want dead?"

"Oh, all of them. Montgomery, his little bitch, Malfoy, his little bitch too…Those cursed agents as well, I suppose."

"When you say bitch…are you referring to the children?"

"No, the hookers. Who the hell do you _think_ I'm referring to, _debil_?"

Put out at the extreme antagonism, Gorozin leaned back in his chair mutely, tapping his fingers on the tabletop. Lost in thought, he considered the developments, looking over at the other collaborators every now and then. Seeing that Dolokhov was determined to withdraw from the pact, he finally chanced voicing his opinion.

"It can be done."

* * *

Harry sat tiredly in his uncomfortable, conjured chair in the minister's office, massaging his neck and temples. In the past half hour, he managed to witness the oration of more legal fine-print than he could have lived comfortably without the rest of his life. His ears were still buzzing from Lucius' explicit, and quite original, interjections. 

Finally, with the last paper read and signed, Rosalind fed the documents into a gray processor, sending the files directly over to her office.

"Mr. Malfoy," Rosalind turned back to Lucius, "A team will be in my office momentarily, ready to escort you to the safe house. You will floo there immediately to meet them. Kavitz, can you unlock the grate?"

Kreg Kavitz, who had grown uncharacteristically quiet and sullen over the course of the meeting, gave an imperceptible nod and moved to carry out the order.

"Wait, wait," Montgomery jumped again from behind his desk, "We cannot open the grate! The reporters will flood in, I swear, they will swarm us!"

No one, however, bothered to spare the man even a glance as they instead watched attentively as Lucius walked through the rift in the wards and disappeared in the green flames. As the last of the fire died away, shimmering ripples in the air assured them that the wards had again locked down.

"Aright, one problem solved," Rosalind stood with her hands akimbo and directly her glare back at the group, "Next, Malfoy junior."

Draco raised his head to look up from his sprawled position against the wall, "Let me guess, no trial, straight to a level 4 cell?"

"Hardly," Rosalind continued unaffected, "As according to the deal I outlined during the flight, you will sign consent forms not to sue MagiComp for embezzlement, you will be issued a full legal pardon, and you will be allowed to access your share of the Malfoy account at Gringotts."

"And in exchange?"

"The attorneys for the prosecution and the defense in the MagiComp trial will be informed of the deal and will so be forced to dissolve the case. You will be required to sign forms agreeing to end the lawsuit in exchange for the pardon as well as consent to leave the country within two weeks time."

"And what about the monetary reparations you promised me?"

"The MIA will transfer fifty thousand pounds into your account and arrange for your transportation to France. From there on, you are a free man."

"Fifty thousand? Out of the _millions_ owned to my family in stock?"

Rosalind tapped her foot impatiently, "Since your father is living, Mr. Malfoy, he will be retaking possession of his former shares in the company. You should consider the fifty thousand ample compensation and particularly incentive to keep your mouth shut."

"But Rosalind, why are we even bothering to please this little prick?" Montgomery pointed a fat, accusing finger at the blond on the floor, "How about we jail him for his war crimes and be done with it, hm?"

"My dear God, you are _dense_," Rosalind raised her hands briefly heavenward with the exclamation, "Accessory to murder? He'll get five to ten years, at most! And then he'll be out and free to sue you for not paying up! After all, Lucius is for our purposes still dead. That and imagine your situation short-term – you jail the last remaining member of the family you owe reparations to without paying up any money. And you expect _not_ to get impeached after such a scene?"

"Oh come now. I am sure we can accuse him of more than that!" Montgomery snatched a newspaper off his desk, "here, look! Atlanta airport – blown up! Five police cars explode in Odessa! And then add to that all of his thievery in St. Petersburg!"

"Our evidence in all of those cases is circumstantial at best," Rosalind maintained, "You will sign along with this deal, Montgomery."

Finally, Kavitz interjected in the conversation, "As your damage control director, I have to advise you to take the offer Liam. You don't exactly have a better option available."

Montgomery stared with betrayed defiance at Kavitz, "You don't think you could do better to save me from this mess?"

"No."

"Father…" Elizabeth laid a gentle hand on her father's arm, "These people only want to help us. Please don't reject their help…"

Dean had to bite his lip hard to keep from snickering at Lizzie's overly tender and subservient manner, as well-acted as it was. He had never had the opportunity before to witness her in manipulation of her father, but it was clear to him as to everyone in the room who was in control.

"Now, Lizzie, you don't understand about these matters…"

"Of course not, father," Lizzie smiled indulgently but her grip tightened somewhat, "But I know you and I know you would not risk your daughter's safety…"

Harry could see Montgomery's resolve crumble before his eyes and had to congratulate Elizabeth on her efforts. He only hoped that she had chosen the right side…

And as he did, he wondered why such a thought would arise.

* * *

A/N: Another chapter complete! And, since I agreed to do Draco/Harry, I'll promise you some degree of interaction in the next chapter. We'll see how it goes. **Please review! I really need feedback at this stage to make sure I won't be screwing up the legal shit or the romance!**

Shaity out


	25. Chapter 24

**

* * *

**

St. Petersburg Nights 

By Natasha Shaitanova

**Chapter 24**: Ties, new and old

* * *

**Disclaimer:** I don't own _Harry Potter_. I am not making any money by writing this. I am definitely not making enough money to afford a lawyer should this story piss somebody off.

* * *

"_The latest from BB: Magical Division is now on air. According to this morning's report by senior correspondent Hermione Granger, Lucius Malfoy, former Death Eater presumed to have been considered death for seven years, has recently been spotted very much alive in the Caucasus region. Several Russian correspondents have confirmed BBC's findings with their own footage of a man fitting Malfoy's description and last known photographs. We must warn, if you knew Mr. Malfoy prior to his staged death, the following images may disturb you…"_

Hermione shifted her gaze from the overhanging TV screen to the folder in her lap, staring at the original photos that Zabini had given her. The airplane was buzzing with excited conversations as her crew eagerly discussed the news-breaking story.

Hermione, despite a similar feeling of excitement stirring in her chest, tried to chance a short nap before their landing in London, hoping to relieve some of the stress of the excursion. Her plans, however, were quickly foiled as a junior journalist shook her shoulder, gesturing vigorously at the screen.

"Ms. Granger, you really might want to see this!"

"Hopkins, cut it out, will you? I wrote the story; it's unlikely that they are saying anything that I didn't already tell them to say."

"It's a different story, Ms. Granger! Look!"

Reluctantly, Hermione raised her head and stared tiredly at the screen. In a matter of moments, however, all her lethargy had departed.

"_What?_"

Draco Malfoy's confident face could have easily been mistaken for an actor's rather than a convict's as he glared from the top right corner of the screen. The reporter in the larger window was speaking rapidly as the subtitles flashed by to keep up with her speech.

"_As of three hours ago, the MIA has issued a press report to BBC, declaring that the former convict Draco Malfoy was acquitted this morning of all charges. The particulars of this shocking event seem to be linked with the MagiComp trial, as both the prosecution and the defense lawyers have signed papers dropping all charges as of two hours ago. _

_Our reporters presume that a deal between Montgomery and Malfoy, in conjunction with the MIA, took place this morning and has resulted in this startling turn of events. Further information on the deal is currently unavailable, as all of the parties involved rejected contact with our correspondents. Agent Potter, in charge of the Malfoy investigation, was likewise unavailable for comment. _

_Further investigation into the matter by our journalists is pending but BBC will keep you updated should any news arise. This is Amanda Larkson and…"_

"Acquitted?" Hermione stared in horror at the television, "After the kidnapping and the explosions? After _accessory to murder_ from seven years ago?"

Mike, one of her underlings, spoke up quietly, "We'll be in London in less than five hours. Do you think we'll be able to get in on the investigation?"

Hermione shook her head, "No way, the London branch is going to have their grip on this story. There is no way they will be willing to share the glory of such a case…Gods, this is the kind of scenario that you make a career on!"

Mike nodded, "The perfect story."

Hermione took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes, before fishing her cell phone out of her carry-on bag. Linking to the magical network, she dialed in Harry's number.

* * *

Harry apparated into the backyard of one of the MIA's safe-houses, one of his hands still clutching his wand and the other – Malfoy's arm. As soon as both their feet were solidly on the ground, Harry let the other go and took two steps back.

""Stop acting like I'm carrying some contagion, Potter," Draco scowled and attempted to brush off his robes (obviously, to no avail), "Are you going to give me my wand back or not?"

Harry glared back before replying, "Your wand was lost. Here is a temporary replacement the Ministry is providing you with."

Draco sneered at the short, feeble looking stick the agent was offering him, "And let me guess, this thing has about as many restrictions on what it can be used for as an Azkaban cell has wards."

"I wouldn't know. Now take it or leave it," Harry thrust the wand at his companion and made to march inside the house.

"Potter…wait."

Harry looked back over his shoulder, annoyed, "Hurry up, Malfoy. I am supposed to make sure that you are safely installed in this place and go. I'd rather not spend forever doing it."

Draco pocketed the new wand and swiftly looked over the backyard, before walking up to Harry and pulling him to a corner away from the house. Making sure they were reasonably concealed behind the lilacs and out of the open lawn area, he turned to the irritated agent.

"I have no doubt that that house is thoroughly bugged. I needed to talk to you away from the MIA's ears."

"I _am_ MIA, Malfoy. You might want to reconsider what you are about to say."

Draco almost looked like that may have been an attractive option, but continued regardless, "I know you Potter, or at least I think I do. You are one of the most morally uptight bastards I've ever had the misfortune to meet…"

"Is this going anywhere?" Harry jerked his arm out of Malfoy's grip.

"Shut up and listen. You know what went on in the Minister's office was a far cry from legal, constitutional, ethical, whatever you want to call it," Draco held his companion's gaze steadily, glad he finally got Harry's attention, "And by now, the whole wizarding England and beyond knows about the shady deal, or at least he outline of it…"

"Go on."

"Now, the minister's office is always bugged as well. Every conversation is taped and recorded," Draco raised his eyebrows to relay some hidden significance, "Do you see where this is going?"

"No, I don't. Why don't you tell me?" Harry did not drop the dryness in his tone.

"Fine, I'll explain for those lacking insight," Draco sneered, "Imagine that I was to go to a lawyer about this, claim victim of governmental abuse. Since everyone knows about the shady deal, the Wizengamot is going to be very interested in knowing the particulars. Now say that they were interested enough to subpoena the tapes…"

Harry slowly nodded, encouraging Malfoy to continue.

"Legally, I am now a free man. The papers are signed and have been sent through the system. Cox can't just take them back and burn them, since they are already in the hands of the security offices," Draco took a deep breath before resuming his explanation, "Since now I cannot be legally touched by the MIA, I am free to sue their asses off for abuse of power. Add to that conspiracy, unconstitutionality, corruption…whatever, I'll let the lawyers sort that out."

Harry frowned, "So why are you telling _me_ this?"

"Because I want you to help."

* * *

After Dean had left to escort Elizabeth to her home, away from the clutches of the paparazzi, only Rosalind, Montgomery, and Kavitz remained in the office. Cox turned to the latter.

"Mr. Kavitz, I hope you understand that the MIA cannot offer you shelter since you are neither an agent nor a client of ours. If you wish it, you could appeal to the security department; perhaps they may be able to help."

Kavitz, who had stilled alarmingly at these words, forced out, "Why would you assume that I need shelter? Mr. Montgomery and I are perfectly capable of protecting ourselves from the press…"

"Mr. Kavitz, there is no need for pretenses. The MIA has long known that you are former KGB and we have allowed your voluntary asylum."

"But then…" Kavitz's eyes widened, "They know! How can they know?"

"They have always known," Rosalind crossed her arms and leaned back against the bureau table, "However, because the balance of having one of their former agents on our turf was so favorable, the MIA has unofficially protected you from their grasp."

"But?"

"But, when they captured Malfoy, we had to be ready to negotiate an exchange."

"You were planning to trade me to the KBG for _Malfoy_ _senior?_" a light seemed to dawn on Kavitz's hollowed cheeks, "So that's why you helped Montgomery so much in the scandal…You had to keep the ministry afloat to keep me from running."

Cox nodded, "Good deduction, Kavitz. We engaged the Malfoy junior matter to keep the MagiComp scandal from elevating. When Malfoy senior contacted me about his escape, we kept the charade going to ensure that the Odessa situation we so inadvertently created was resolved."

"And now?"

"And now, with Malfoy's resurrection all over the papers, thanks to that Granger, the Russians know that the exchange deal fell through. I think you can come to the obvious conclusion, Kavitz…"

Kavitz paled, "I'm a dead man. After all those years…"

"FSB agents are likely already on the ground, Mr. Kavitz," Cox's manner portrayed more business than sympathy, "I would suggest hiding yourself. As a former agent, you should be adept at going underground."

"Yes, thank you for your unerring support…"

Cox shrugged, "The MIA does not harbor fugitives. That is what you are as of this moment."

The pair spent a bare few moments staring each other down, before Kavitz sprung towards the door and out, his footsteps echoing down the corridor.

* * *

Shaitanov and Arbatiev sat huddled in one of the downtown London pubs, hiding behind grimy windows and foaming mugs of beer.

"We can't hide from them," the former was saying in growling undertones, "if they've got it into their heads to go after us, then running won't do any good."

Arbatiev hummed and nodded in consent.

"They only ignored me before because of the profits…"

Arbatiev looked up.

"You know, the green and the targets. I made sure your list matched theirs about eighty percent."

Arbatiev nodded back toward his mug.

"You have to take him out, Vadim," Shaitanov clucked his tongue morosely, "It's him or us, you know."

Arbatiev glanced at his boss, questioning, "He was your partner. What about the code?"

Shaitanov sighed, "Fuck the code. He could have been my fucking lover and I wouldn't change my mind."

Arbatiev hummed in discontent.

"So, we worked together, knocked some guys in the good old days, so what?" Shaitanov downed the rest of his beer in one gulp, "Things have changed. If the FSB wants him, then we'll give him to them."

"Do you really think they won't knock us anyway?"

"No," Shaitanov got up and gestured for Arbatiev to do the same, "But maybe our chances will improve…and it'll make me feel better."

* * *

A/N: That's all for now. The confusing deal with Draco's lawsuit will be explained in the next chapter. Trust me, it won't be as improbable as it seems after it's been explained. Just sit back and enjoy, yes:)

I haven't forgotten Ron and Blaise, their time will come. They are not out of the story yet.

So…Please review! **More reviews mean quicker updates :)** That and I honestly want to know what you really think about this story and chapter :D

Shaity out


	26. Chapter 25

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**St. Petersburg Nights**

By Natasha Shaitanova

**Chapter 25: **Arrivals

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**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Harry Potter_ or any other recognizable, copyrighted persons, objects, places, etc.

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**Quick A/N:** After a prolonged absence, I decided that this story deserved to be finished. So…let's try to carry through the final few chapters))

**Soundtrack for chapter**: Bushido – Endgegner.

Bu decided to get some money on the side and copyright all of his music videos on YouTube. Well, he missed the best one ;)

http /www .youtube .com /watch? v12KKKh bOFOY

Just get rid of the spaces, sweethearts. It's a great vid. Hopefully, Bu will get out of his little asshole mood soon and the rest of the vids will be reposted.

* * *

The flight from Paris to London landed five minutes ago and he was already striding out of the airport, not bothering to check the baggage claim. He had a small gray backpack slung across his shoulder and large aviators easily covering half of his face.

"Where to, sir?"

He rattled off the address with a perfect accent. He'd practiced during the flight.

When the taxi rolled to a stop, he thanked the driver and paid with a reasonable tip. Nothing out of ordinary. As he strolled along the boulevard, he took out a pair of wallet pictures and studied them for a few moments before throwing them in a nearby trash.

* * *

Harry was reclining on the familiar couch in his apartment with a tumbler of gin clutched in his hand. The bottle was resting on the coffee table.

"It's insane," he mumbled against the cool glass. "What a fucking collaboration..."

Malfoy's words wouldn't leave his mind, no matter how hard he tried to distract himself.

_I want you to help_.

"Translates to 'I want to use you'," Harry snorted and took another gulp. He had not talked aloud to himself since the last mission that left him in a similar position – drunk and tired. Rattling the ice in the glass, Harry considered pouring another when a shrill beeping filled the room.

"Hello?"

"Harry? Is that you? You don't quite sound like yourself…Am I calling at a bad time? Well, in any case…"

_Hermione_, Harry groaned slightly and shifted the phone against his ear. He could not imagine a worse time for her to call.

"Harry, are you still in London? Have you seen the news?"

"There are a lot of news, Hermione…"

"Harry are you drunk? You sound drunk. No, there is only one story that interests me and you know what it is."

"No, Hermione, I don't. Only you are all-knowing. I am only Harry…"

"Harry, I need you to snap out of it. How much have you had?" he could hear her huffing on the other end of the line. "Harry, now is not the best time to be wasting."

"Really? Because I'm having a great time with it…"

"Harry, focus! What the hell is going on with the Malfoy deal?"

Harry rolled and tried to busy his face in the sofa pillows. His voice came somewhat muffled over the telephone. "That's fucking confencal…cf'dshal…confidential information!"

"Oh really? And what about the information on how a certain reporter helped the big-shot agents track down the minister's daughter and asked for nothing in return?"

"…Don't guilt-trip me, Hermione. I'm not in the mood for games."

"I'm not _playing_ games, Harry. But I do see a lot of things which don't add up and I would like to know why."

* * *

She packed lightly. A wallet, a sports suit, a bottle of water, and a sniper rifle.

She got into the rental car and threw the sports bag onto the passenger's seat. Her new cell-phone lay in the cup holder and vibrated lightly once the shut the door. Flipping it open, she listened.

The voice on the other end came over scratchy and neutral; she immediately recognized the effect of a scrambler. She memorized the address he recited and hung up, starting the engine. There were still three unused numbers in the phone's contact list.

* * *

"The deal was made to keep everyone quiet and to keep Montgomery afloat. It was sketchy and it was too damn hasty, but that's all they had to go on at the time."

"Just how much is being covered up in this machination?"

"Everything."

"But what about—"

"Hold on, call on the other line," Harry cut Hermione off and switched to the other caller. "Hello?"

"Potter, I want you in my office in fifteen."

"Ms. Cox? What's this about?"

"Fifteen minutes, Potter."

Harry pulled a face at the dial tone before reconnecting with Hermione. "That was my boss. She wants me for one thing or another, I need to go."

"Harry, I'm not letting this one go. It's better if we are talking when the story hits the fan."

"You mean the shit hits the fan and I hear what you're saying. I'll get in touch."

He hung up and threw the phone back onto the coffee table. Surely he had some sobriety concoctions in the bathroom?

* * *

Dean and Harry stood at attention in Cox's office, the latter sporting somewhat bloodshot eyes and a throbbing headache. Dean shot him a concerned glance as Rosalind occupied herself with a thick manila folder. 'What's up?' he mouthed.

Harry glanced down at his hand and mimed pouring a bottle. Dean had to cough violently to mask his amusement.

"I hope you're well rested since yesterday's excitement?"

"As well as can be," Dean responded with a straight face.

"Good, because I have another mission for you," Rosalind looked up at her agents, studying them over her glasses.

Harry managed to snap out of his stupor to stare back, incredulous. "Already? What else managed to get screwed up in the in the past couple of hours?"

"Some formality would be appreciated, Potter," Rosalind frowned before pulling two envelopes from the thick folder. "Here is the information you need. It's a quick hit, over and done with in a matter of hours."

"You want them taken out?" Dean opened his envelope upon finding it unsealed.

"Easy as that. It's a quiet job, you simply make them disappear."

Harry did not bother to open his envelope and instead watched Dean's reaction as he scanned through the brief. His response was not altogether encouraging.

"What the fuck, Rosalind?" Dean refolded the papers clumsily in his anger. "What happened to the deal?"

"He's a liability."

Harry watched the interaction uneasily. "Who's the target?"

"Malfoy."

* * *

The rest of the numbers had called in. Their owners sat in a crowded café, together with the early arrivals, chatting about their college days at Oxford.

"Remember how we looked in the yearbook pictures?"

"Oh, it's unforgettable! Although I think my freshman one was somewhat better than that atrocity from sophomore year."

Everyone nodded and laughed. So the first picture would be the first target.

"But remember that transfer student? It's a shame they forgot to put him in the yearbook."

"Oh no worries, we used to hang out back then. I'll show you our pictures sometime."

Murmurs of interest affirmed the suggestion. The third target was established.

* * *

His insides clenched, mouth going dry. "Which one?"

"Malfoy senior," Dean was still frowning. "But we sent him underground…"

"Malfoy has a trail and it will catch up with him," Rosalind put the folder back in her desk. "We cannot take the chance that he'll speak when that moment comes."

"Well, why didn't you tell him that? Tell him to run, not that you'll shelter him!" Dean was definitely glaring now, hating the situation.

Harry spoke up for Rosalind, masking his relief. "We couldn't afford to have him run. Either way, he has to be taken care of. This way, it's easier."

Dean turned to Harry, astonished. "You're unbelievable." He spun on his heel to rush out of the office, as Harry's voice rang out behind him.

"Meet at the designated time and place. I'll call to confirm."

* * *

Upon apparating back to his apartment, Harry stuffed the envelope in his safe and rushed to grab his ready backpack for the hit. After a cursory check to verify the contents, he disapparated once more, thus time aiming for a certain safehouse.

Draco was drinking a cup of coffee and skimming through the channels of an ancient TV set when he heard a telltale crack in the back yard. He flinched forcibly, causing the cup to slip and smash against the tiled floor. Cursing as hot liquid scalded his ankles, he grasped the ministry wand and rushed to the rear of the house.

Harry didn't wait for Draco to leave the shelter of the house on his own, but instead walked right onto the porch, motioning for him to come out.

Seeing Potter, Draco relaxed visibly, replacing the wand in his pocket. He opened the back door, glancing around before silently joining the agent on the porch. With a questioning stare, he pointed to the lilac bushes and led the way at Harry's nod.

Brushing aside a sense of annoying deja-vu as Draco pulled him out of sight of the house, Harry wasted no time in jumping into the issue.

"They marked your father as a target."

Thrown at the unexpected declaration, Draco could not mask his surprise. "What? Who?"

"The MIA. My orders are to go to his safehouse and take him out in exactly 3 hours and 20 minutes. Any ideas?"

Draco paused. "Why are you telling me this?"

"He was given a deal. When I signed up for this job, I didn't anticipate deadly triple-crosses of our own agents."

"In other words, you don't give a shit about him but it would make you guilty," Draco crossed his arms. Even as he glared at Potter, he wasn't entirely sure why he was avoiding the importance of the conversation.

"Yeah, you know, it would," Harry glared back. "And I'd prefer it didn't happen. So, can you contact him?"

Draco shook his head. "They made sure I had no means of knowing where he was being relocated. Something about security…?" he scoffed. "Don't _you_ have means of contacting him, considering that you are being sent to kill him?"

Harry simply looked as though he called Malfoy's intelligence into serious question. "What, you expect me to stroll up to him and tell him to run before I shoot him and then say 'whoops, I missed'? The MIA will bury me!"

"Not our dashing hero, then," Draco sneered, but did not give Harry time to reply. "There is someone."

"How soon can they get him out?"

"With a bit of luck? Maybe in two hours."

"Make the call."

* * *

-

A/N: alright, with this preliminary stuff out of the way, the rest of the characters will be back in the game in the next chapter. Hmm…I foresee more guns and car chases, how does that sound?

And so, you saw this coming…**please review for more guns and car chases! XD**

-Shaity out.


	27. Chapter 26

**St. Petersburg Nights**

By Natasha Shaitanova

**Chapter 26: **Killers and Victims

* * *

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Harry Potter characters or series plot, etcetera etcetera.

Copyright of plotline and original characters of this story.

**Author's Note**: So I have abandoned fanfiction and all things related for a pretty extended period… However, given time and motivation, I just might finish this story :)

* * *

"Checkout time, loony." The guard banged the rubber club against the metal bars as the cell door slid open. "Must be your lucky day."

A single wide, raving eye stared in confusion as the huddled mass of rags and stale odor jerked alive. Ron lifted himself off the concrete floor, using the wall for support.

"Where are you taking me?"

"A lovely and rather angry lady has been yelling at the officers for over an hour, demanding your release." The guard grimaced at the prisoner's state before dragging him down the corridor. "Why she'd want this lowlife set free is not my business, but it would sure set my curiosity at ease. You know anyone who'd care about you, loony?"

"I know no one."

The guard shrugged and unlocked the handcuffs. "There is a package containing the possessions you came in with at that window. You can change in the adjoining stall."

Ron accepted the bundle of clothes and a nondescript yellow envelope. His wand and wallet fell out, as well as a few stray coins. Once changed, he stuffed the items in his pockets and walked out to the lobby of the detaining station.

"Oh, Ron!" Hermione abandoned her lecturing of the officer behind the desk and hastened to her old friend. "You look awful! We must get you changed and cleaned up immediately, not to mention get a decent meal in you."

Ron shuffled on the spot, reached his hand out and suddenly pulled back. "You have pretty hair."

"I have been on Merlin knows how many planes and subways, made dozens of calls, screamed at the imbeciles that run this place, and now that I see you after all the years, you tell me I have pretty hair." Hermione smiled indulgently and took Ron by the arm to guide him to the exit.

"If you stand under the sun, it would be like gold, with a gold coating. Like the gold pills with gold coating, brown pills, gold pills, no more pills, no more."

"My God… What have they done to you?"

* * *

"Well this is a few steps down from your old digs. Never let it be said that our government has a generous bone in its gigantic, tightwad body!"

Blaise made a sort of pirouette as he surveyed the modest apartment and flopped down on a cloth-covered couch, wincing at the resulting creak of old springs.

"Explain your annoying presence, Zabini." Lucius Malfoy did not stand on formalities or any sort of surprise and seated himself across from his uninvited guest.

Blaise was on the verge of continuing his chattering but closed his mouth with a confounded expression as he took in the older man's appearance. Malfoy was dressed simply in black slacks and a dark gray shirt that hung unbuttoned to reveal a plain, white wife-beater. Green, unbecomingly fuzzy slippers covered his feet.

"What the bloody hell are you trying to look like, Mr. Malfoy?"

"If my dress is that unseemly, then let that be your punishment for barging in unwanted into a supposedly secure witness protection apartment." Malfoy spoke in a low, surly voice and crossed his arms as though defiantly before continuing, "How and what for did you find me?"

Blaise considered pursuing the matter of the wife-beater and slippers, but a glance at the clock caused him to move on. "How I found you is not important. The 'what for' is the curious part, because as we speak, Agents Potter and Thomas are on their way to this same apartment to blow your brains out."

Malfoy sighed and rubbed his eyes and forehead with an air of tired resignation. "Do clarify."

"Well…they were ordered to knock you. Blow your brains out. End your rather remarkable existence. Put you down. Give your suffering an eternal rest. Did I mention to blow your brains out?"

"Twice. And I am contemplating letting them."

Blaise scoffed and grabbed a long overcoat from a hanger by the door. "That pathetic façade doesn't suit you, sir. Lose the slippers already and get gone, they'll be here any minute."

Catching the coat that was thrown at him, Lucius lay it aside to button up his shirt and seek out a suitable pair of shoes.

"That's more like it," Blaise observed as the other man gradually returned to form. "Here, a little something to compliment the look."

"What is this, a twig made in china?"

"An unregistered wand, it's good enough."

"Perhaps I have been living around muggles for too long, but I would have preferred a Beretta—" Lucius cut himself off and suddenly grabbed the offered wand, twisting on the spot and disapparating without another word.

"Well that's a bit rude, no tearful goodbyes for his unwanted, miraculous savior?" Blaise grumbled under his breath and crawled behind the couch just as the front door burst open.

* * *

In a substantially larger and tastefully decorated apartment, Kreg Kavitz was squeezing the last of his suits into an overflowing suitcase. He quickly gave up the impossible task and rushed from the bedroom to an adjacent study. After ruffling through several of the desk's drawers, he pulled out a small pistol that lay buried under stacks of unimportant office documents. Cocking the weapon, he whirled around to point it at the giant of a man standing in the doorway.

"Put that toy away, Kavitz."

"Russian accent, eh? Well no, tovarish, I am not going to hand myself over to FSB, wouldn't dream of it!" Kavitz fired off two shots, hitting the intruder mid-torso.

Unimpressed as the shots ricocheted off the bulletproof vest, Arbatiev crossed the room in two huge steps and yanked Kavitz's arm behind his back, causing the pistol to fall to the floor. Taking the agent by both shoulders, Arbatiev threw him bodily at the base of the wall and took out a Glock from the pocket of his usual sport suit.

"Not the FSB." Taking aim, Arbatiev squeezed off a shot at Kavitz's left knee. "Shaitanov wants you gone. He said to tell you the matter was personal."

Kavitz arched up in pain, banging his head inadvertently against the wall. "That bastard… And he failed to mention our agreement to cover for each other when we ran?"

"You know, I failed to care to ask for his reasons." Systematically, Arbatiev shot off the right knee and aimed the Glock at Kavitz's forehead. "Now that I have put you in enough pain, I am going to put a bullet through your skull, wrap you up in plastic, and deliver you to my boss. With any luck, your death might save him from the FSB. How do you feel about helping your old partner out one last time?"

Kavitz lay crumbled and panting, gritting his teeth against the searing pain shooting from his thighs to his torso. His eyes gazed up unfocusedly at the hit man. "Tell him…tell him…hell, just blow his head off for me, eh? That psycho will probably have you killed someday too."

"I will keep that in mind." Arbatiev fired off the last shot and splatters of red covered the beige wallpaper of the study.

* * *

Harry and Dean rushed into the safe-house apartment upon hearing muffled voices and the faint crack of disapparition. Harry signaled Dean to check the closets and moved forth toward the kitchen. He got perhaps halfway across the living room before Dean's yelp caused him to whirl around.

"Son of a bitch!" Dean cursed as Blaise grabbed his wand and hexed him to stop struggling.

Harry was about to lunge to help, but stopped short as a black Luger was pressed against his partner's temple.

"That's right, Potter, slow down. No rush here." Blaise maneuvered Dean's arms behind his back and bound them together without losing his grip on the gun.

"You can't think you are walking out of here, Zabini. The moment you let him go to make your escape, I will be binding you and sending you straight to an MIA detaining center." Harry kept his wand pointed at the pair, but had no clear shot as Blaise stood behind Dean.

Blaise shifted Dean as he shuffled backward, to place himself between the door and the captive. "Maybe not, but if I kill him, will you be shocked long enough for me to disapparate? Hey, maybe we should find out!"

Harry fought against the impulse to attack as Blaise took the safety off and nudged the barrel into Dean's hair. "Murder of an MIA agent, Zabini? Sure you can hide from that?"

"Oh without a doubt. Potter, you act as though this is my first murder, I'm insulted." Blaise stroked Dean's cheek before slapping him sharply. "Hey Dean, maybe I should carve a lightning bolt into you after I shoot you. Do you think it would make your partner feel even _more_ guilty for your death?"

Harry felt a wave of déjà vu at the words, but ignored it. He kept looking for an opening but saw none.

"That was a jab at you, Potter. Or are you really such an insensitive bastard that you forgot how your redhead crush had died?"

Feeling his muscles seize up, Harry looked directly into Blaise's laughing eyes. "You murdered Ginny."

"Sure did. She was a good kill, truly. You know, I prefer women in that sense, they are a lot more fun to kill." Blaise cocked his head and stared at the ceiling in faux contemplation. "Men – they are bores, either cowering or trying to make speeches as they die. But women – oh no, they will scream, and fight, and run, and give you a hell of a rush before you put a bullet in that pretty, heaving bosom."

Harry's rage had frozen to a resigned horror as the killer raved on. He didn't notice his wand tip slip a few centimeters, making the worst mistake an agent can and dropping his guard.

"I love hearing myself talk, it's true. Call me conceited, but I think given enough time I can mesmerize people that way." Blaise chattered lightheartedly as he watched Harry unwind. Finally, once he was satisfied with the agent's slackening attention, Blaise took a swift step back, simultaneously opening the door and pushing Dean forward.

A single shot rang out, followed by the sounds of a door slamming shut and a heavy weight hitting the floor.

* * *

Draco Malfoy walked out of a Gucci store, leaving behind two stupefied sales associates and the tags of his classy new outfit. Taking a seat in the waiting limousine, he smiled genially at the man waiting inside.

"Long time, Dolokhov."

The latter glanced over the young man and shook his head disapprovingly. "If you had told me you had to resort to thievery to support your wardrobe, I would have had some Wolfram and Hart flunky do the shopping beforehand."

"Not at all, it's refreshing to do some simple stealing after the whole Russian fiasco." Draco fished around the built-in cooler and pulled out a bottled cocktail. "Explain to me instead why a company limo is stocked with bitch beer…"

"I'm sure that's not a pressing issue." Dolokhov took the bottle away and threw it back on the ice. "Would you like to start discussions now or wait until we arrive at the offices?"

"Why not wait? I am in no rush to get back to my suburban prison."

"Wolfram and Hart will supply more adequate housing for you once I open your case file."

"Am I to be your new project?"

"In all respects of the word, yes." Dolokhov took out a manila folder and an old-fashioned ink pen. "A few preliminary signatures, if you will."

Draco looked over the pages, skimming the fine print. "Same as what I read an hour ago. Pen please?"

"Certainly," Dolokhov jammed the tip of the pen into the back of Draco's hand before handing it over. "Signed in blood. You understand, my employers are not the most ordinary kind."

"Well noted." Draco grimaced as he swirled a signature onto the contract.

* * *

End note: Well I hope you enjoyed my "comeback" chapter :D There will probably be a couple more to follow. **Feedback is yearned for and much appreciated! **

Shaity out.


	28. Chapter 27

* * *

St. Petersburg Nights

By Natasha Shaitanova

Chapter 27: The Price You Pay

* * *

Disclaimer: I don't own _Harry Potter_ plot or characters. I do own the plot and original characters of this story.

Author's Note: Much sooner update than anticipated… I'm thankful for the reviews from last chapter, glad you guys liked it! Hopefully we can get a higher percentage of readers to become reviewers at some point….

* * *

The limousine pulled gently into the front driveway at the London offices of Wolfram and Hart, stopping directly before the large glass doorway. Draco and Dolokhov stepped out, looking for all the world as two up and rising lawyers of the looming corporate firm.

Dolokhov led the way inside, striding swiftly and ignoring several secretaries, while Draco followed distracted. The place was teeming with harried-looking suits off all sorts; human or not, they all seemed to be irreparably and eternally late.

"This is what the end of the world must look like."

Shrugging at the younger man's remark, Dolokhov showed him into the elevator and entered a sequence of numbers instead of choosing a floor.

"Can't decide?" Draco observed with mild curiosity.

"Not all floors are directly accessible. Some are password protected."

"An interesting touch."

"Wouldn't want anyone barging in if we used my regular office. Come."

Once the doors opened, the pair proceeded down a wide, nicely furnished corridor, stopping at a set of double doors. Dolokhov threw both open as they walked inside.

"You haven't lost your touch for the dramatic, I see. So how many people do you have to kill to get an office like this?" Draco glanced around at the cabinets, armchairs, and large TV hanging on one of the walls, decidedly impressed.

"As a former Death Eater, I didn't have problems qualifying. You interested?"

"Just a client, thanks."

Dolokhov merely made a sort of jerk of his head as a form of response and sat down behind the large, dark-wood desk.

"Let's get started."

* * *

She walked into the dingy trailer dressed in hospital scrubs and slippers. Her hands were covered by latex gloves, one gripping a plastic-encased duffel bag. She surveyed the mesh-covered windows and picked one with a view overlooking the village below. Settling down on a wooden stool, she unpacked the contents of the bag, all sterilized and wrapped.

It took her half a minute to assemble the rifle, another half to check the sight. Satisfied, she laid the weapon across her lap and stared at the little black box placed on a built-in shelf of the trailer. She was ready to wait.

* * *

"This signature finalizes the agreement. Wolfram and Hart agrees to house you for the duration of the trial, to represent you during the trial, and to do our best by any means to secure a favorable verdict given that you comply with the conditions of repayment upon completion of the trial. Sign here."

Another painful signature and a shuffle of numerous stacks of paper later, Draco was sporting a familiar smug look as he and Dolokhov toasted to the new partnership.

Rattling his drink, Dolokhov looked thoughtful but unreadable as ever. "You mentioned useful witnesses. Now would be a good time to reveal them to me."

"Only if you promise not to rip those papers apart and throw me out."

The Russian furrowed his eyebrows and scowled at Draco. "That bad?"

"Potter and Granger."

"Yes, that's bad. Let me tell you why." Dolokhov finished the gin before continuing, "Because it appears that someone already scrambled your brains and I must have just signed an agreement with a walking and talking vegetable."

"That's harsher than usual. Shouldn't you be nice to your ultimately well-paying clients?"

"I shouldn't be anything I do not wish to be. Explain."

"I already talked to Potter, I think he is willing." Draco leaned forward for emphasis as he spoke, "Just think of how this will look. Leading MIA Agent appears as a corroborating witness in the biggest trial against the MIA ever since its formation , supporting the plaintiff Draco Malfoy, victim of governmental abuse and corruption. It's beautiful."

"It's improbable. But there is an angle in this which may suit our interests after all."

"What would that be?"

"First, we give Agent Potter a call and ask him to join us for a conversation at our offices."

"Ah, so you like my plan." Draco smirked and crossed his arms, leaning back comfortably in the armchair.

"I hate your plan. But I have another which just may work."

* * *

He sat in a rickety chair behind a tiny table in a crumbling motel room, angry, bored, and lost. Lucius Malfoy fled London and found the pathetic little room in a nearby village, hoping to hide in a rat-hole before deciding on a better course of action.

The cheap, unregistered wand lay on the bumpy bed, along with his coat and wallet. All of his possessions.

Malfoy stared out of the window as the mid-afternoon sky lit up the hills surrounding the valley in shades of emerald and gold. Life seemed peaceful and easy in such places.

* * *

Harry and Hermione sat mutely in one of the St. Mungo's waiting rooms, occasionally calling over one of the orderlies to ask for a progress report. For the past two hours, the only response they received was to be patient and let the Healers do their job. Every now and then they would catch a glimpse of the harried-looking surgeons rushing to and fro behind the glass doors of the Emergency Room.

Hermione had left Ron in her apartment under the care of her cleaning lady and Flooed over to the hospital as soon as she received Harry's call. Healers had swarmed over Dean the moment Harry carried him into the Emergency Room, but his condition still seemed to be critical.

Anxiously, Hermione let go the straps of her purse that she had been furiously twisting in her lap and turned to her friend. "Harry, please for the last time, tell me what happened."

"It was a mission gone wrong," Harry didn't lift his gaze from the stained, ancient carpet as he answered. "Or rather, a mission that shouldn't have even happened had gone wrong."

"You have to give me more than that."

"I can't. It's protocol, you know? That's right, a state secret. Boss says do the mission, you do the mission. Boss says keep your mouth shut, you better as hell shut it."

"Oh for Merlin's sake, that didn't stop you in Yalta!"

"Yeah, in Yalta my partner wasn't in the Emergency Room, dying."

* * *

After checking that the alley way was empty, he tightened the straps of the small, gray backpack and climbed up the fire escape of a local restaurant. Once on the roof, he crouched down and shuffled his way over to sit behind an air conditioning vent.

He assembled the rifle carefully, checking for the hundredth time that the parts were well-oiled and slid together perfectly. He hated using the gloves during assembly, but that was protocol. Satisfied with the result, he peered around the rumbling vent and aligned the sight with a motel room window. He had a clear shot.

He took one of the three pictures out of the backpack and studied the mark for the final time before settling down to wait on the signal.

* * *

"Mr. Potter and Miss Granger?" one of the Healers stepped through the doors of the waiting room and called out as he stuffed dirty gloves into his pocket.

Hermione jumped up first and hurried over. "Is he alright? How did the operation go?"

Coming over to stand next to Hermione, Harry studied the surgeon silently, waiting for the verdict.

The Healer made a sort of half-shrug movement, "Dean Thomas was brought in a most critical state, with a ruptured aorta and hemorrhaging in the lungs. We did the best we could with cleanup, but his system was already in shutdown. He is currently sedated, but we can lift that partially if you would like to try talking to him. Artificial support won't hold much longer, I'm afraid."

A strangled chocking sound from Hermione and a curse from Harry were the only responses before the Healer led the two through the glass doors to one of the operating rooms.

Dean lay amidst various tubes, beeping machines, and a few glowing, floating spheres. His complexion was an unchanged dark brown, save for the heavy darker circles under his eyes.

The Healer directed Harry and Hermione through the apparatuses to stand by the bedside, before telling the anesthesiologist to decrease the sedatives and awaken the patient. One less IV and a wave of a wand later, Dean's eyelids fluttered as he squinted against the lights. He tried to speak but could only make a dry, rasping sound.

"I'm sorry, Dean. The bastard was right, I dropped my guard and this is the result." Harry didn't look his partner in the eye.

"No," a weak rolling motion against the pillow was all Dean managed to express denial, "That was a fucked up mission anyway."

"It shouldn't have been you laying there."

"We couldn't have expected that."

"I could have. I wanted to be just, went against protocol. That makes the whole damn thing my fault."

Dean coughed, spraying blood drops against his lips and chin. "The hell you talking about?"

Harry looked up and around the room, motioning the Healers and Hermione out. With one last look at Dean, even the latter obliged.

Harry leaned his elbows against the plastic bed railing and spoke lowly, just enough for his partner to hear. "I tipped him off."

"Contact with the mark? Don't fuck with me Harry, you wouldn't."

"Indirectly, I did. I thought it would be for the better. He gets wind of the hit, runs, and we show up to an empty house."

"Right, except your rat decides to shoot me through the back and scram."

"I never spoke with Zabini. I can't even imagine why he was involved. You have to understand Dean, I didn't think the cost would be so high."

"Fuck," Dean sputtered and struggled to gulp some air. "You should have told me."

"There wasn't time."

"How is now any better?"

The floating spheres beamed red as Dean was hit by another bout of coughing, causing the Healers to rush back inside and push Harry out of the way. In the melee that ensued, Harry only caught flashes of wand waves and glimpses of syringes being stuck into the dark arms, all accompanied by the insistent beeping of the hear monitor, before the huddle of surgeons parted to reveal Dean lying still on the operation table, eyes closed.

One of the nurses pulled her gloves off and turned to the head Healer, "Shall we call time of death, sir?"

* * *

He sat among broken furniture and dusty rugs, having snuck into an abandoned house on the edge of the village. The final two had called in from their respective locations and the four pinprick lights glowed green on the corners of a little black box.

He took out a nondescript, silver cell phone and dialed a memorized number. On the tiny screen balanced on his knees, he watched Lucius walk from the bed to the table, where the phone must have been ringing.

"Hello?"

He flipped the switch in the middle of the black box, sending out the signal. No one else heard the shots or saw them connect, but he watched the tiny body in the screen crumble to the floor.

He hung up and placed the cell phone carefully in a backpack, together with the little black box. The green lights had gone out seconds after he flipped the switch; the team had already dispersed.

He slung the backpack over his shoulder and walked cautiously over the old wooden planks, quietly shutting the door behind him.

* * *

A/N: Well, apologies to any Dean and/or Lucius fans out there. I think you all saw that coming though.

Reviews are greatly appreciated! Feel free to tell me whom you want dead or alive from the remaining characters ;)

Shaity out.


	29. Chapter 28

* * *

St. Petersburg Nights

Chapter 28: Bad Publicity

by Natasha Shaitanova

* * *

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter. I do own this story though, so no plagiarism, got it?

* * *

"Ms. Cox, this is an outrage! I thought the whole point the negotiations was to keep the squirt quiet?" Montgomery was back to his usual temper as he paced his office and gestured furiously at the TV screen. Meanwhile, BBC continued the reportage.

"_Mr. Malfoy Junior refuses to comment on the case, referring the reporters instead to his attorney, a Mr. Dolokhov of Wolfram and Hart. The latter has brought case in Malfoy's name against Liam Montgomery and Rosalind Cox, claiming conspiracy and governmental abuse of power. Field reporter Catherine Pratt is with Mr. Dolokhov, outside the offices of Wolfram and Hart, where a large crowd of protestors, supporters, and curious passer-bys has already assembled. Over to you, Catherine."_

The somberly dressed, middle-aged blonde woman kept a strict face as she nodded to the camera and turned to the attorney.

"_Mr. Dolokhov, could you provide the BBC with any particulars as to what this case is about? It has clearly caused quite a stir in the wizarding community."_

"_Of course, Ms. Pratt. Here at Wolfram and Hart we appreciate the value of an independent press telling the people what is really going on. Mr. Malfoy has suffered significant material and psychological damages from our Minister's cover up of the MagiComp scandal, as well as from MIA intervention in the matter. Indeed, the plaintiff will be calling on Agent Harry Potter as our witness in this unsavory affair."_

"_Excuse me, but could you please confirm this again for our viewers, Mr. Dolokhov – Harry Potter of the MIA will be a prosecution witness in the case _against _the Minister and the MIA itself?"_

"_It is our intention to call Agent Potter to the stand, something we strongly suspect he will oblige."_

"Oho, do tell, what is your boy up to now, Cox?" Montgomery looked over at Rosalind, who was staring with a nearly bewildered expression at the screen.

"Hell knows, nothing I authorized." Rosalind took out her cell phone and called her secretary. "Angela, I want multiple trackers put after Agent Potter, effective immediately. Any unusual movement gets reported directly to me."

"Well look at that, your attack dog got loose!" undeniably gleeful, Montgomery rubbed his hands and shook his head at the TV. "Merlin, now I just can't remember... who was it that warned everyone against setting the Malfoys free? Oh that's right, I _told_ you your deals were idiotic!"

"This could not have been anticipated."

"Who are you kidding? Malfoy running to Wolfram and Hart? That's like a kid to his favorite playground! And Potter? He's been showing signs of Stockholm Syndrome since he got back to England."

"Stop being so verbose, Mr. Montgomery. Don't you have a lawsuit to prepare for?" Rosalind stood up from the armchair and headed for the door. "It will be dealt with."

* * *

"Harry! Have you completely gone out of your mind?" Hermione screeched at her cellphone while slapping Ron's hand away from skillet of sizzling potatoes. "No, Ron! Are you trying to burn your fingers off? Harry, answer me!"

"For whatever reason you think that, Hermione, you are probably right," Harry replied quietly, still sober and brooding.

"Rosalind Cox is going to bury you alive."

"Also very likely." Harry paused for a moment. "I lost her a top ranking agent, didn't I?"

"Top ranking... Oh Merlin, I'm not talking about Dean, how could she possibly blame you for that? Turn on the TV this instant!"

"Give me a second," Harry fell sideways on his couch to reach the remote, clicking the screen alive. "What am I looking at?"

"You are looking at Dolokhov pronouncing to all the world that you are going to speak for the prosecution in Malfoy's case against that MIA. Christ, Ron will you stop that?"

"What the bleeding fuck are you talking about? And you found Ron?"

"Yes, I found him and he is far from sane, he is acting like a depressed toddler. Honestly. But explain to me first why you went to Wolfram and Hart behind your boss's back!"

"I didn't," Harry ground the words out as the meaning began to sink in.

"Harry?"

He jammed the phone in his pocket and grabbed his wand, disapparating.

* * *

He surveyed the study, from the scattered papers on the floor to the blood splatters on the beige wallpaper. She took out a metal probe and scraped some of the red flakes into a plastic zip-lock bag. They went through the desk, but most of the documents were mundane bureaucratic nonsense. The safe was empty save for a yellow sticky note.

"Read it."

"_I will gladly give you his body if you piss off. Shaitanov."_

"Idiot."

She dialed a memorized number. "Kavitz is gone. Signs of struggle, severe blood loss, and robbery. Also found a note signed 'Shaitanov', claiming he has the body." Pause. "Understood."

"Put the note in a bag and let's go. New assignment."

"Details?"

"Find Shaitanov and the body, bring both in."

They walked carefully out of the apartment, being sure not to leave a sign of their presence.

* * *

"Well that was easy."

"Didn't I tell you my idea was better?"

Draco and Dolokhov observed on a security monitor as Harry marched through the front doors of Wolfram and Hart and immediately accosted the first secretary he found.

"Have pity on him already, before the security throws him out."

"Oh alright," Dolokhov tore himself from the screen and texted instructions to the secretary to let Harry know the location of his office.

"Should we, you know, bring a couple of thugs in here for insurance?" Draco gestured vaguely around the room. "Might get rowdy..."

"He's not that stupid," upon stating that, Dolokhov frowned. "I'll have a team on backup, just in case."

"And three, two, one..."

Almost on cue, the doors of the office flew open to reveal an enraged agent, marching in with his wand pointed in the occupants' general direction.

"What kind of game are we playing now Malfoy?"

"No game, just following up on our earlier conversation. I told you about the lawsuit." Draco stayed unflappable while Harry raged on in front of him.

"My partner is dead! I helped you, tried to let you save your worthless father, and you send fucking Zabini to ambush us!"

Draco sincerely frowned. "I didn't know about Thomas. What went wrong?"

"What went wrong is that that piece of shit put a bullet through Dean's chest! I had to watch him die as I was telling him that it was all my goddamn fault."

Draco exchanged a worried look with Dolokhov, before speaking, "I'm sorry, I have no idea what Zabini was playing at. He was supposed to get in, tip my father off, and get out before you even had the chance to get to the place. Potter you have to understand that I was in no way involved in what happened."

Harry pocketed his wand, but would not be placated. "You fuck up my mission but that's not enough. Now you fuck up my entire career by broadcast on _national television_ that I will be witnessing against my boss in your damn trial! Do you have a death wish, Malfoy?"

"We had the conversation about the trial already. I thought you saw my point about your boss being a _corrupt bitch._" Draco crossed his hands and put on the most obstinate expression. Clearly, there was a strict time limit on his capacity to be apologetic. "Besides, you're stuck with us now, aren't you?"

Collapsing into an empty armchair, Harry sighed deeply and shook his head. "So many years since school and you still make me hate my existence. I feel like a pet project."

"You give yourself too much credit, Boy Wonder," Dolokhov finally interjected and made his way over to the office phone. "Why don't we call in Granger and put out a more delicate cover on this matter?"

Harry reached for the flask of cognac on the coffee table, not bothering to look up as he answered, "There is no way she'll agree to work with you people. She hates Wolfram and Hart almost as much as she hated Voldemort."

"Convince her."

* * *

Rosalind Cox marched through the halls of MIA Headquarters in a cold fury, sending workers scattering away from her path. She came to an abrupt halt in the vestibule of her office.

"Angela, any word from the trackers?"

Angela North cringed somewhat at the prospect of delivering the news. "They were stationed outside of his apartment and followed when he disapparated."

"Disapparated to where?"

"Wolfram and Hart headquarters, Ms. Cox. The trackers were unable to infiltrate the building."

Rosalind threw up her hands in a mix of fury and exasperation. "By Merlin, what is that stupid boy up to? Organize an extraction team. How hard can it be to break into a law firm?"

"Time frame, Ms. Cox?"

"Now, Angela, right now!" Rosalind proceeded into her office as she spoke. "I want him in the chair across my desk in a half hour, tops."

* * *

Dolokhov checked the screen of his cell phone, skimming through a new message. He turned to Draco. "Get him," he pointed to Harry, "On the phone with Granger. I have another client to take care of."

Draco scowled in response, "And what are we supposed to do while you make nice with some oligarch? We can't very well get her into the building."

"I'll leave instructions with the secretary downstairs. And expect me back shortly."

Dolokhov walked speedily out of the office and to the elevator, dialing in yet another sequence of numbers. At the cheery tone of opening doors, he closed his eyes and breathed deep as though gathering his patience. Upon arriving at the second office, he was greeted by a clap on the back and a toothy smile from the other client.

"Two down, tovarish!" Shaitanov positively glowed as he delivered the news. Gorozin smiled indulgently from his seat behind the conference table and went back to shuffling schematics.

Dolokhov subtly pushed Shaitanov off and straightened his suit. "Who is down?"

"Malfoy senior and Kavitz, by the Russians and Arbatiev, respectively."

"Don't forget the Thomas character as well," Gorozin threw in, distractedly.

Shaitanov clapped his hands once and nodded sharply, "That's right! That fucker, Zabini, did a pretty job on the agent. So that just leaves..."

"Cox, Potter, and Malfoy at the very least." Gorozin rubbed his forehead and leaned back. "So, the easy part is done anyhow."

"Exactly. Dolokhov," the latter barely raised his eyes as Shaitanov turned to him, "Any idea on where we can find those three?"

With a straight face and a nonchalant tone, Dolokhov answered, "Haven't a clue as to Potter and Malfoy. I imagine witness protection housing is likely. As for Cox, where else would she be but her ivory tower?"

"Not so much ivory as layers of fortified steel, concrete, and the best of wards." Gorozin waved the schematics he was holding. "If we find a way in...and make it out alive, we will undoubtedly deserve an award for the topmost breaking and entering job in history."

"Better get to it, detail man. We haven't a lifetime."

* * *

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A/N: Thanks Emz, for being the sole reviewer for Chapter 27 xD Well, it got me to write this anyhow. But of course, **please review for more sexy lawyer-talk and blazing guns! **

-Shaity out.


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